


Gods or Mortals

by Gerec



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Childhood Friends, Historical Fantasy, Intrigue, Kings & Queens, M/M, Mpreg, Mpreg is mentioned not shown, Multi, No Heats, Political Alliances, Secret Relationship, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/pseuds/Gerec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt from <i>'The Life and Times of King Charles the Third'</i>, volume XI of the <i>'Histories of Westchester'</i>:</p><blockquote>
  <p>They say that his birth was foretold by the Great Seer of this Age, an omega child born unto the House of Xavier and most beloved of the gods. Powerful amongst the Gifted Ones the child will grow to rule a kingdom mighty and vast, a legacy of dominion over land and sea. That he will be beautiful beyond mortal countenance and desired by all who see his face. Empires will fall by his command and kings by his design; the world torn asunder by war and then made new from its ashes.</p>
  <p>These are the words that herald the arrival of Charles Francis Xavier, 124th of the line of Xavier and heir to the throne of Westchester.    </p>
  <p>This is his story.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to the lovely **ang3lsh1** , the best cheerleader I could ask for; **Widgenstain** and **Rozf** , who poured through pages and pages of story outline to give me your awesome feedback; and my lovely **Lachatblanche** for your endless support. I hope you guys like this little story.
> 
>  **Regarding Tags:** Please note that for spoiler reasons, I've chosen **NOT** to list everything that will come up in this story within the main tags. I will however, list potential red flags at the bottom of each chapter as they're posted. Just know that if you found any particular plot development in 'Game of Thrones' disturbing or triggering, you run the risk of encountering it here too.
> 
>  
> 
> **CHINESE TRANSLATION AVAILABLE[HERE](http://www.movietvslash.com/thread-162930-1-1.html)**

_**Year 205, Age of Prophecy  
**_ _**Castle Stark, Attilan** _

The fire is burning low when the knock finally comes, the moon well along its path across the midnight sky. Charles’ arrival is the latest it’s been these past few nights, and Erik is in a state of near panic; worried their affair has been discovered by the wrong people.

Or worse, that Charles is ending things before they’ve truly begun, after the years they’ve already spent apart.

He moves swiftly from his chair by the fireplace, swinging the heavy wooden door open to reveal his lover standing on the threshold. Charles smiles up at him, warmer and softer than Erik has been gifted in almost a decade, and quietly slips inside the room.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming.”

“Were you?” Charles asks, his voice gently mocking. “I didn’t think the Warrior King of Genosha was capable of being afraid.”

The words are light and teasing, but Erik knows enough to recognize the bite beneath the playful banter. Charles does not trust him fully - not yet - but Erik is a patient man. He will earn back his rightful place in Charles’ heart.

“I’m afraid of losing you,” Erik admits readily, if a bit recklessly, as he trails after Charles into the inner bedchamber. “I’m afraid of never holding you in my arms again. Of never being able to kiss your lips. Of loving you with every breath and every part of me and that it still won’t be enough.”

There is a soft exhale of breath, Charles’ shoulders dropping slightly before he straightens once more, taking another step towards the large four poster bed. From his place by the door he sees only the soft wave of Charles’ brown curls; can only admire the drape of azure blue silk across those broad shoulders.

“Come to bed, Darling,” Charles says, turning to glance back at Erik expectantly. He lifts his arms, the layers of his robe unfolding to reveal the royal symbol of Westchester, the peacock’s tail unfurled and splendid in all its glory. Erik can’t help but stare transfixed, enraptured by a Charles that is stark and powerful in his beauty; so different from the boy he used to love.

“You are...perfect,” Erik murmurs, his hands coming to rest on Charles’ shoulders, slipping under the soft folds of the collar to slide the robe off his lover’s body. His breath catches as Charles’ nude form is slowly revealed, Erik’s hands following the lines down his muscled back to the slopes of his buttocks. “More beautiful now than the first time I kissed you,” he whispers, tugging gently on Charles’ hips, kneading and caressing the smooth skin with a gentle reverence. “Remember? On the banks of the river at Graymalkin.”

Charles turns languidly, stepping out of the silk pooled at his feet and into Erik’s waiting arms with a sigh. “And you haven’t changed at all. On _that_ I can always rely.”

There’s a shade of regret in Charles’ voice that he finds disconcerting, though Erik is given no time to uncover its cause. As on previous nights, Charles is the one to initiate their love making, pulling Erik close and sealing their lips together in a kiss deep and raw with emotion. Erik’s knees nearly buckle from the intense wave of lust that swallows him whole, twining with Charles’ own arousal and heightened by his Gift. The rich and luscious scent of omega fills his lungs, dulling his mind even as it sharpens the burn in his blood. His hands grasp tight enough to bruise, his mouth licking hungrily as Charles wraps his arms around Erik’s neck and moans, loud and needy.

“The bed,” he breathes and Erik obliges, guiding Charles backwards while kissing him still. With a gentle shove he pushes Charles onto the bed and climbs on top, pinning him lax against the furs.

“Can I?” Erik asks, sinking down and grinding his clothed body against miles of warm and naked skin. The leather of his tunic and trousers are of the softest hide, though the friction still makes his lover whine. “Please. I want to see your face.”

Erik has asked to make love to Charles this way, each night they’ve been together since arriving in Attilan. He wants to see Charles’ face as Erik breaches him; wants to kiss Charles’ lips when his body thrums with bliss. But Charles has denied him every time, climbing on top of Erik to take his pleasure, or pushing back with a growl as Erik takes him on his hands and knees.

Tonight he finds Charles uncharacteristically compliant, a sly, indulgent smile on his lips as he nods in answer to Erik’s plea. It is enough to fill him with a tentative hope for the future - one where their heated clashes stay on the chess board rather than the battlefields of war.

“Well?” Charles says, interrupting Erik’s train of thought with an impatient huff. “Do you tire of me already? Are you planning to stay in your clothing all night?”

He grins, reminded of the demanding and petulant Crown Prince of Westchester he met almost eighteen years ago. They have both changed much in the ensuing years, their connection pulled taut with distance and strained to near breaking. The thought of Charles in his arms was near incomprehensible mere months ago; and there are no words now to express his elation for a reunion unexpected.

The tunic comes off quickly enough, Erik tugging his trousers off at an equally hurried pace. And though Charles reaches to pull him close, Erik grabs his hands to still him, eager for once to take the lead.

 _Just lay back._ He pushes his thoughts at Charles, his inner voice soft but firm. _I would take my time with you. Make you tremble from the feel of my fingers when I touch you. Let me show you how I love you._

Charles seems surprised, his expression wide and vulnerable for the briefest of moments, and Erik wonders what thoughts are running through his brilliant and complicated mind. Their frenzied couplings to date have been rough and passionate, bordering the edge of violence; Erik too greedy to hold himself back and Charles clamoring for his knot with no regard for foreplay. But now, lust sated after years of longing, Erik finds himself craving the easy intimacy of their younger days.

He kisses Charles again - slowly, tenderly, drawing heated moans from that soft, luscious mouth. Erik moves as an intrepid explorer in a newly discovered land; hands following every dip and curve of Charles’ body, his lips mapping the lines and freckles across his skin.

“Erik,” Charles gasps, as he slides between the omega’s thighs, hands under his knees to spread him wide. His tongue curls in and out languidly, lapping at the rich and heady taste like the finest of aged wines. Charles has never been more beautiful than in this moment, his hands fisting in the furs as he arches against Erik’s mouth.

When he adds his fingers Charles groans, rocking his hips down to take Erik deeper. His lover is magnificent in abandon, eager and unguarded in a way that makes Erik greedy for more. Many have coveted Charles of Westchester over the years, to lay their hands and sate their lust on the omega child of prophecy. And yet it is Erik who claims him now, dragging desperate cries and shallow pants from Charles’ swollen lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, stroking Charles’ erection in time with his fingers. “I want you so much. Want to be inside you.”

“Yes,” is Charles’ answer, both a demand and a plea. “Yes. Erik, now. Please.”

Erik slides his fingers from Charles’ slick entrance and shifts to kneel between his thighs. Taking care to be gentle he sinks in, slowly inch by inch, reveling in the tight clench of his lover. When he leans closer for a kiss, Charles moans, wrapping his legs around Erik’s hips as Erik pins him to the bed.

“Move,” Charles says, eyes half-lidded in pleasure as Erik buries himself to the hilt. The feeling is exquisite and Charles keens, throwing his head back as Erik begins to thrust. They move together as one, Erik snapping his hips as Charles pushes against him, their bodies fitting together as two halves of a whole.

He can sense Charles’ pleasure, radiating outwards to embrace him like a cloak before sinking deep into his skin. It’s a feeling he’s missed, Charles letting go and losing himself, joining their thoughts and emotions as one. It’s also how he knows when Charles grows impatient, greedy for faster and rougher strokes and ready to roll them over and take control.

 _No_ , Erik sends, his hands moving to grasp Charles’ wrists, dragging them up and above his head. His lover’s breath hitches though he doesn’t complain, staring at Erik with his bright blue eyes full of challenge.

 _What do you want?_ Erik continues, as he moves faster, rocking his hips as he tightens his hold. _Tell me. I want to hear your words._ He follows the command with a hard thrust that makes Charles toes curl against the furs, his lover arching his back with an obscene moan.

 _Fuck me_ , Charles answers, his inner voice breathless and dazed. _Fuck me, Erik. Take me and mark me. I want to feel every inch of you inside me and never let me go--_

The stream of words cuts off abruptly as Erik surges forward, devouring Charles’ mouth with a desperate ‘yes’. His movements are rough and frenzied now, slamming over and over in a savage haze to claim and to own.  He can feel Charles nearing his peak, spurring him on to increase his pace, the tension driving them both relentlessly towards an explosive climax.

His knot swells, pressing in and spreading wide, pushing Charles over the edge with a hoarse shout.  Erik follows, grunting as the pleasure slams through him like a tidal wave, dragging him under as he spills hot and slick inside Charles’ body.

He collapses with a groan, arms holding the brunt of his weight to keep from crushing his lover before leaning to press a soft kiss on Charles’ lips. There’s a smile there that warms his heart, and a look of contented bliss before Charles rolls them both onto their sides and tucks his body under Erik’s.

They lay together - for minutes, hours, he does not know – his fingers splayed across Charles’ back as they wait for Erik’s knot to subside. There is quiet contentment here, a rare thing in their lives even before they became kings; finding sanctuary in each other’s arms as they used to as children.

Charles is the first to move, pulling away slightly until they are face to face, bodies intertwined but no longer tied. “Erik, there’s something…I have news.”

“Later,” he mumbles. He has no desire to discuss the peace treaty, or anything else that Charles wishes to say about the Starks or their remaining time in Attilan. “Please, Charles. Let’s just enjoy this. I don’t want—”

“Erik,” Charles interrupts, “I’m with child.”

His fingers still on their path along Charles’ hip, and he can feel his lover tense under his touch. “You’re…what?”

Charles frowns, pulling himself up to sit beside Erik, his posture stiff and oddly distant. “I _said_ , I’m having a baby.”

It’s what he’s wanted - to have a child with Charles - for as long as Erik can remember. But the image of Shaw’s face flashes before him unwillingly, as smug and satisfied in Erik’s mind as he’d always been in life. Hatred, dark and visceral almost overwhelms him, the thought that Charles – _his_ Charles – could be carrying that man’s---

“It’s not Sebastian’s baby, Erik. It’s yours.”

The rage dissipates immediately, leaving a whirlwind of emotions in its wake. He’s elated, that he and Charles will be tied together by this most sacred of bonds. Surprised that a pregnancy happened so quickly, only days after their initial coupling. And excitement and curiosity at the child’s potential, with two parents so powerfully Gifted.

A wry chuckle brings Erik back to the present, as Charles gazes at him with unreadable eyes. “You’re happy?”

Erik laughs, dragging Charles close to pepper kisses all over his face. “Delighted. I couldn’t be happier.”

“And will you say the same to your wife, Erik? When you tell her about me, and the baby?” Charles continues, unaffected by Erik’s good humor. “Tell her that you took the widower of your greatest enemy to bed, mere weeks after you murdered him? And will you abandon Magda now? And your children? To build a life with me? Or do you think I will agree to be your dirty secret, and raise my child as a bastard with a father that will not claim him?”

The words cut Erik deep, Charles’ cold delivery and seeming indifference sparking an anger that he tries quickly to dissipate. He does not _know_ what he will do…and Charles can no doubt see his discomfort clearly, their minds still closely linked from their love making.

“Are you…asking me to leave my wife?” Erik asks, his stomach clenching at the thought of hurting Magda. He does not love her as he does Charles, and yet he cannot claim to have no feelings for the mother of his children. And what will he say to Wanda and Pietro if he chooses this path? Could he bear the guilt? Or their pain and condemnation?  

Charles’ hand on his arm grounds him, stilling the turmoil within his heart. “Peace, Darling. That’s not what I want from you.”

And yet, Erik knows with every fiber of his being that he would do this, even if Charles doesn’t ask it of him. Because they are no longer boys but Kings; not too young to withstand the machinations of others or too stubborn to make things right.

“I admire your sentiment, Erik but what I want is your silence.” Charles shifts away from him to swing his legs off the bed, making his way to the wine on the table, a gift from their hosts to the King of Genosha.

“You want…I don’t understand.”

He watches as Charles pours the liquid into two goblets, the light from the fireplace casting his skin with a golden sheen. Erik has never wanted anything quite so much as having Charles by his side once more, and he is not so magnanimous as to give in without a fight.

 _You have no choice,_ Charles sends _, no choice but to pretend this never happened._ He hands Erik one of the goblets, before taking a long sip from his own. _There is no need for your family to know. Our affair ends tonight._

“No!” The goblet spills from his hand across the furs, staining dark red against the pristine white. He barely notices, so intent is he on his lover. “We’ll find a way to make it work! I can come to Westchester! Or you can see me in Genosha!”

Charles shakes his head and smiles, a bitter and wounded thing that cuts like a thin line across his handsome face. “Shall we forever meet as thieves in the night? Our relationship granted life by the mercy of your Queen?”

Wine forgotten, Erik kneels and reaches for Charles’ hand, pulling him back until they are facing each other on the bed. “I told you. I would leave Magda so we can be together. I don’t want to lose you.”

“You lost me long ago, Erik. You’re just too stubborn to accept it.”

That the words are true don’t make them easier to hear, and Erik has never been one to accept consequences as immutable. But it seems that Charles is set to have his way once more, his face grim with determination as he sets his goblet down on the end table and takes Erik’s face within the palms of his hands.

“Listen to me, very carefully,” Charles says, his eyes bright and hard as ice. “The world will know the child as mine and Sebastian’s, heir to the thrones of Westchester and Aerie. No one can know what has happened here…with the treaty signed and the war ended, you should be heading home to your family.”

He shakes his head, refusing to believe that Charles could-- “You would deny me my child? Raise him in Shaw’s name? The man I despised for what he did to my parents? For taking you from me?” Erik is shouting by the end, his hand gripping Charles’ wrist hard enough to bruise. But Charles calmly meets his glare, his voice reflecting none of Erik’s confusion and uncertainty.

“He loved your mother. As he loved you.” Erik growls in warning but Charles is not deterred. “And Sebastian can hardly have taken me from you, when _you_ were the one to end our engagement.”

“You know I had no choice! Charles, I--”

“I understand, Erik. I do. We were born to be kings, you and I, and must make decisions not for ourselves but for the greater good. That you are Sebastian’s nephew and heir will not matter to the people of Aerie; they will not accept the man who led a war against them to rule now as their king.”

“I don’t want his lands,” Erik spits, “not anymore.”

Charles shrugs, as though the two were discussing the weather and not the fate of their flesh and blood. “And you will not have them, now that I am bearing Sebastian’s heir. There will be no debate in his Court and no one will dare challenge my right to rule Aerie in the child’s stead.”

The pieces fall together in an instant, and Erik curses himself for being too blind to see. “You planned this. To let me in your bed and give you the child you need. That you would use me, and use an innocent child--”

“Spare me,” Charles snaps, and it’s the first flare of emotion his lover shows, yanking his arm free of Erik’s grasp. “You hardly needed encouragement to fuck me, Erik. As though _I_ needed to seduce _you_.” He scoffs, mocking Erik’s anger and indignation. “This child is _mine_. Not yours and not Sebastian’s. I will love him with everything that I am and protect him from harm with my last breath. I promise you, he will be loved and cared for every bit as much as your own _precious_ twins.”

They are too close, voices raised and their faces mere inches apart, neither willing to back down from a confrontation that in hindsight was inevitable. Erik will not let Charles take his child away, to use as a pawn in his games. He will do what he must to stop Charles from leaving, even if he has to do so by force.

“Now, we come to the truth,” Charles spits out, his fury wild and dangerous as a coming storm. “So easy to read, even if I didn’t have my Gift. You profess that you love me and yet you think I’m a monster. You're a liar, Erik Lehnsherr. Faithless and without honor. How easily did you promise to abandon your wife? And how easily do you turn to threatening me now? As if you had any power to stop me.”

There’s no warning when it happens; no shift in the air that’s still heavy with their mingled scent. No gesture or change in Charles’ expression to signal the onslaught of his Gift. There is only Erik’s body toppling over on the bed, limbs unmovable like a puppet without its strings. When he reaches outwards with his own Gift he gets no response, the hum of the metal in the room completely silent and impervious to his command.

“I won’t let you do this,” Erik snarls, as Charles turns away from him, making his way to the table to refill his goblet. “I’ll announce to the world that I’m the baby’s father. I won’t let you lie for your own gain and deprive me of a relationship with my child.”

Charles appears completely unmoved; neither worried by Erik’s anger nor concerned by the unspoken threat. He takes a long, slow drink of his wine, watching him on the bed with assessing eyes, before making his way back across the room to Erik’s side.

“You can do that,” Charles answers, his voice deceptively calm as he looks down on Erik laying prone across the furs. “I won’t stop you. But _I_ will tell our hosts – and your _wife_ – that you raped me after you murdered my husband. That you took your enemy’s omega as your rightful prize for your victory against Shaw--”

“No! You wouldn’t--”

“—and who do you think they’ll believe?” Charles continues, as Erik watches him in utter horror and disbelief. “Will they believe the grieving widower, so distraught these past weeks over the loss of his loving husband? Or will they believe the Warrior King of Genosha?  Who swore an oath of blood to kill Sebastian Shaw for his father’s death and his mother’s honor?”

The air in the room is suddenly too thin, and Erik finds it difficult to push down the overwhelming panic and despair. He knows Charles has him by the throat, for Erik is too proud to bring such shame to his father’s legacy. “You would do this, Charles? To me? Do I really mean so little to you?”

He can see it, for no more than seconds, the glint in Charles’ eyes softening as he stares at Erik, an expression of heartbreak washing over his youthful face. But it is gone in the blink of an eye and he is faced once more with a Charles that is impassive and implacable.

“You really have no idea, do you Erik?” Charles asks, as he makes his way to his discarded robes. He leans over to pull something from one of the pockets; a long, curved dagger made entirely of polished bone, the infamous Dragon’s Claw of the House of Westchester. Erik would shiver at the sight of it, if he still had control over his own limbs.

“You have no idea what I suffered at my stepfather’s hands because of you,” Charles continues, dagger in hand as he approaches Erik once more. “Because of you I married a man I did not love, but one who was good to me. One who cherished me for more than a pretty face and a womb to produce his heirs. Who taught me tactics in war and politics in peace and ruled as an equal by my side.”

With an impatient air, Charles shoves Erik onto his back and climbs onto his lover, his body sprawled in a mockery of their previous intimacy. A hand curls gently through his hair, cradling his neck as the blade moves slowly to rest, dangerously close to Erik’s throat.

“And you killed him,” Charles hisses, near enough that Erik can feel his breath upon his lips. “You are always _taking_ from me, Erik, and giving nothing in return. So a child of our blood is the least that I am owed.”

The blade presses closer against the sensitive skin, bone edge razor sharp where mere hours ago Charles had kissed him, tender and affectionate. Erik holds his gaze perfectly still as his lover looms above him, eyes bright with determined fire. “If you follow me, I will kill you,” he says, voice too cold and precise to mistake the meaning of his words. “If you come for me or the child, I _will_ kill you. Leave and go home to your perfect little family and forget this ever happened. And if I meet you on the battlefield again, _Your Majesty -_ I won’t hesitate to slit your throat.” 

“You don’t mean that.” The contempt in Charles' voice is palpable, and Erik has to swallow the helpless rage; has to smother the sliver of fear burgeoning in his gut at Charles’ stony countenance. “I love you. I know you love me too, Charles. _How_ could you do this?” The words ‘ _to me’_ he leaves unvoiced, though Charles is certain to hear the silent query.

Unexpectedly, the sharp edge retreats and he lets out a relieved sigh, the sound mingling with the soft clatter of the blade falling onto the cold stone floor.  Charles follows it slowly, eyes never leaving his, broad hands seemingly reluctant to let go as he climbs off Erik’s immobile body.

“I _do_ love you, Darling,” Charles answers, mouth gentle as he leans down to kiss Erik again, barely a whisper of space between their parted lips. “It’s the only reason you’re still alive.”

“No you can’t _do_ this! I won’t--”

Another kiss, almost violent in its intensity, silences Erik mid-rant. “I will. I _have_ ,” Charles insists with an impatient air, pulling away from Erik now to slip back into his discarded clothes. He watches with mounting desperation as Charles throws the silk robe over his shoulders, sliding his arms in and cinching it closed, his body once again off limits to all but Erik’s imagination.

“Goodbye Erik,” Charles says, reaching to cup Erik’s cheek before pulling away with a sigh. “I…goodbye.”

He is losing Charles all over again, watching helplessly as his childhood love severs the last of their ties, both too damaged now to endure the burdens of their past. It's as though the past few days were nothing more than a dream, and Erik had spent it with a mere memory of the Charles that used to be.

 _I love you, Charles,_ he sends, hoping beyond hope that his lover will heed his desperate plea. _I’ve loved you my whole life._

_And what has your love ever given me, Erik, but pain and heartache?_

His eyes grow heavy as he watches Charles turn and walk away, the last of his words echoing in Erik's mind before he knew no more.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Adultery, lying about non-con


	2. First Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles makes some new friends.

_**Now** _

The halls are all but empty this late hour, as Charles walks briskly back to his own rooms within the guest wing. The few guards and servants he sees on the way are easily diverted with a slight touch of his Gift, the castle’s inhabitants none the wiser to his nightly visits with the King of Genosha.

The confrontation with Erik leaves him drained, weighing heavier and heavier with every step he takes. Vindication - long overdue - mixes with an age old grief, leaving Charles numb to both Erik’s pleas and his own conscience.

It’s a victory bitterly won, even if Charles has never been more certain of his path.

Emma is waiting for him when he opens the door to his quarters, her face impassive. Now more than ever he is grateful for her presence and her unwavering support; that she does not judge him or his choices, no matter the consequences.

“It is done,” he says, rubbing his face tiredly as he drops to the floor by her feet, warming himself by the dwindling fire. She doesn’t answer right away, carding her hands through his hair gently as he leans into her touch. They sit quietly for long moments, Charles opening his mind to her, sharing the undiluted events of the past few hours.

“How did it come to this?” Charles asks, heart sore at the memory of a long ago bond. Of days and nights when the thought of Erik brought only joy and anticipation. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Em. Not like this.”

“No,” Emma murmurs, “things rarely go as we expect them. And hardly ever as we wish. Mourn him, Charles. Mourn what could have been, and then let him go.”

“Yes,” he agrees, and then, “are the troops ready?”

“They are waiting on your word.”

"Good,” he answers, squeezing Emma’s hand before standing and making his way towards the inner bedchamber. His armor is laid out across the bed, his belongings packed and ready for transport. “We leave at dawn.”

* * *

  
_**Year 187, Age of Storms  
** _ _**Graymalkin Castle, Westchester** _

_In the Prince’s eighth year, the Great Seer came to Graymalkin Castle by invitation of the King and Queen, and there read the portents for all the royal children of the seven kingdoms. The beginnings of this tradition has long been lost to time, though many cite Charles I, Founder of the House of Xavier for its origins._

_And so it was that Charles Francis Xavier III met for the first time, those with whom his fate would be forever entwined; Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, Heir and Crown Prince of Genosha and James Logan Howlett, Ward to the King of Genosha, his Majesty Jakob Lehnsherr I._

\-----

“Come on, Erik. You can hit harder than that!”

The sounds are coming from just ahead of him in the clearing, down by the river running east of the castle’s outer walls. Charles can hear the clang of metal as he draws closer, along with the harsh grunt of someone being knocked to the ground, only to scramble back up with an indignant cry.

“I _can_ hit harder! I just don’t want to hurt _you_!”

He crouches quickly behind his favorite tree, thick enough to shield his entire body and waits for his heart to stop racing. Mother will be upset that he’s gone out again on his own; even more so with the castle in its current state, filled with royals and dignitaries from the other six kingdoms of Heven. But it’s far too beautiful a day to spend reading or practicing his letters indoors, and so Charles had climbed out the window and gone exploring, curious about the visiting children he had yet to meet.

“Ha! You know you can’t hurt me! At least come up with a better excuse for your shoddy foot work!”

“Shod--! Shoddy? I’ll show you shoddy!”

Keeping low to the ground, he peeks through the foliage of the surrounding greenery, careful not to make any noise. There are two boys sparring on the soft grass, their clothing streaked with dirt and sweat. One is taller and slightly bigger than the other though both are dressed alike, in tunics and trousers of dark red and gray. Sporting brown hair and the same wild grin on their faces, Charles wonders if the two might be brothers, though he knows of no royal siblings currently staying at Graymalkin.

He can’t help but be envious as he watches; it’s clear that the two have been taking lessons for some time, their ease and familiarity with weapons obvious even to a novice like Charles. They attack with impunity in a flurry of lunges and strokes, clashing with the ferocious grace of natural born warriors.

With a great heave of his sword the taller – and likely older - of the two knocks the blade from his opponent’s hand, following the move with a sweep of his leg that topples the other to the ground with a yelp. Charles expects an end to the match then, and is surprised when the younger boy throws his arm out towards his fallen sword…

…only for the sword to fly through the air and land squarely in his hand, as though it had been yanked halfway across the clearing by an invisible cord.

The boy is one of the Gifted.

He gasps, too amazed by the spectacle to remember to stay quiet and both boys freeze, turning simultaneously in his direction.

“Who’s there?” the Gifted one demands as he jumps to his feet, blade ready, sounding more angry than afraid. The other boy only sighs as he lowers his own weapon, before taking a cautious step towards the bushes where Charles is hiding.

“It’s alright, you can come out now. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Charles considers, for a moment, turning and running as fast as he can back to the castle. They have yet to see his face so they can’t tell the guards they saw him outside. And though he thinks it’s unlikely that they’ll chase after him, he knows he’s fast enough to outrun them if they try.

Instead, he reaches out with his senses, divining what little he can of their thoughts from a distance. The younger one is closer and his emotions are stronger, annoyance and curiosity both as he waits for something to happen. The older boy’s feelings are much harder for Charles to read, though what little he _can_ sense is edged with a gentleness that helps to set Charles at ease.

His own curiosity aroused, he makes a more deliberate noise this time, signaling his presence as he scrambles out from behind the foliage. Taking a deep breath, Charles steps into the clearing and takes a tentative step forward, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

“Hello.”

The older boy smiles, returning his greeting while the other one tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes at Charles.

“Oi it’s just a baby, Logan! I thought we’d get to fight a wolf! Or a bear!”

Charles can feel his cheeks heating with indignant fury, and his mouth opens to answer without thought. “I’m not a baby! I’m eight years old! And you don’t look that much older than me!”

“Erik,” the one called Logan chastises with a shake of his head, before turning his attention to Charles. “Of course you’re not a baby. Erik is only two years older than you…” He pauses. “What’s your name, little one?”

“I’m _Charles_ ,” he answers with a huff, straightening his shoulders and trying to appear as tall as possible without standing on his toes. “And I’m not little! I’m perfectly normal sized!”

Logan laughs, and though he sounds more amused than mocking, Charles is hurt nonetheless. He’s rarely around children his own age - with the exception of his little cousin Henry – and had hoped to meet some kindred spirits during the Seer’s visit. As heir to the throne of Westchester, Charles spends much of his time in the presence of his tutors and nannies; and with the exception of Angel, none share his love of maps and stories about the world of Heven and beyond.

He turns to go, disappointment welling in his heart; if only he wasn’t so small perhaps the two boys would want him to stay. Or perhaps they would reject him anyway, since they already had one another for company. Who would want a little baby getting in the way?

“Wait!”

Charles stops in his tracks, spinning around to see Logan standing much closer now, his hand raised in an aborted attempt to reach out and catch him. “Stay, please Charles,” he says. “Do you want to spar with us? Or do you want to watch us some more?”

“Yeah you can stay,” Erik adds, giving Charles a lopsided grin. “Stay and watch me trounce this loser.”

Logan crosses his arms and snorts. “He’s been watching for quite a while, he knows who’s trouncing who.”

“Wait, what?” Charles shakes his head in confusion. He’d been very careful about staying quiet and out of sight. “You knew I was there? How?”

Now it’s Logan’s turn to smile, a tiny, mischievous smirk on his lips as he winks. “I could smell you.”

Charles looks down at his clothing and frowns, taking a sniff of his sleeve and finding nothing but the mild scent of soap. He’s wearing a clean shirt and pants he borrowed from Henry – three years younger and already the same size as Charles - his own wardrobe too elaborate and easily spotted for an afternoon in the woods.

“I don’t _smell,_ ” he states, frown deepening into a scowl as Erik collapses onto the ground, laughing at Logan’s blunder.

“No, that’s not what I mean!” Logan stammers, shooting Erik a dirty look as he scrambles to explain. “You don’t smell bad at all! You smell nice! It’s just that I…I mean…I could smell you because of my Gift.”

Any lingering resentment is swallowed by the wave of excitement, as Charles stares at Logan and Erik now sprawled on the grass. They are _both_ Gifted, and Charles wants to know everything they can do, and maybe share a bit of his own powers in return.

“Can you tell me?” he asks, a little breathless, taking a step closer to Logan again. “About your Gifts? What you can do? ”

And though Erik had seemed largely uninterested in Charles before, he is now brimming with anticipation, seeming to come alive at the earnest request. He stands, and with a slight wave of his hand, sends his sword into the air, turning it around and around in slow circles as Charles looks on with unbridled glee. Erik grins broadly at Charles’ excitement, and the blade starts spinning faster and faster and faster, until the boys can see nothing but a blur of silver glinting in the sunlight.

“That’s amazing!” Charles gasps; he can’t take his eyes off the sword as Erik floats it gently onto the ground, before taking a very proper, if somewhat theatrical bow. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“That’s because no one else can do what I do,” Erik boasts, causing Logan to grunt and roll his eyes, an exasperated smile on his lips. Charles is struck again at their familiarity and ease in each other’s company, and wishes more than ever that he had a friend to call his own.

“My turn,” Logan says, shoving Erik out of the way and coming to stand in front of Charles, all but vibrating with nervousness and muted hope. He watches Charles’ face intently, lifting his right hand up and mumbling a little under his breath. “Don’t be scared.”

He wants to object, because he’s _not_ a baby, and isn’t afraid of Erik or Logan even though they’ve only just met. And though Charles hasn’t touched either of them – and therefore can’t read their thoughts directly – he _can_ discern their intentions, and has found nothing more threatening so far than a little pride mixed with an abundance of curiosity.  

“I’m not—” he starts, only to stop and gape in wonder, as the skin begins to split between Logan’s fingers, three claws slightly curved and razor sharp extending outwards from his knuckles. They remind Charles of a cat’s claws, or a wolf’s; beautiful but deadly and designed solely for the hunt.

“Oh…” Charles is already reaching out to touch, his fascination overwhelming his good manners. He brushes his fingertips lightly across one of the claws made of bone, fascinated as Logan holds himself completely still. “They’re…,” he hesitates, a frown coming over his face at the sudden thought that springs to mind. “Does it hurt you?”

Logan shakes his head, his smile soft and warm. “Only a little. I’m used to it.”

He looks up at Logan who is watching him still, and smiles in return. “It’s wonderful. Do you…do you use them? To fight?”

It’s not until Erik jumps to his feet again that Charles even remembers his presence, having gotten up off the ground during his exchange with Logan to stand between the other two boys. When he speaks, he does so with an air of pride, as someone with deep admiration for the subject and no small amount of awe.

“Logan’s Gift is amazing,” he says to Charles. “You should see him when he trains with the guards. He’s faster and stronger than most of them already, and he’s only thirteen! And he can hear and smell and see better than everyone else! Papa says that Logan will probably be Captain of the Royal Guard someday!”

Logan doesn’t quite blush at Erik’s words, though he does look uncomfortable at the effusive praise. In a blatant attempt to divert focus he redirects their attention to Charles, his claws retreating back into his hands as he asks, “What about you, little one? Do you have a Gift too? Will you show us?”

There is nothing that he wants more in this moment, than to tell Logan and Erik everything about his Gift. That he can hear the thoughts of others most clearly when he touches them, and can ‘speak’ to them without uttering a single word. But the teachings his Mother has drilled into him war even now with his desires; that he must not show his abilities so freely to others.

That no alpha will want an omega with such a strange and invasive Gift, especially one more powerful than his or her own.

His misgivings must show clearly on his face, because Erik takes him by the hand and pulls him down, sinking down together on the soft green grass. “It’s alright if you’re not Gifted,” he begins, “we still want to be your friend.” Logan nods his assent as Erik continues, “And if you are you can tell us. I promise we won’t laugh or make fun of you, whatever it is.”

“You promise? Because my Gift is…different.”

“We promise,” Erik answers, voice solemn, as Logan drops down beside them. “My uncle says every single Gifted is blessed by the gods and that we must never forget. We must never treat a Gifted one lightly or without respect.”

It’s the sincerity in Erik’s voice that ultimately pushes Charles to make a decision, reaching tentatively to grasp each of their hands. His stomach flutters as Logan squeezes him lightly in encouragement, closing his eyes as he lets himself reach outwards and fall.

 _I can do this,_ he says, reveling in their stunned silence as his inner voice echoes through their minds, the three of them joined intimately by Charles’ Gift. _And I can hear what you’re thinking too._

He’s never tried this before, reading two people at once, and it takes Charles a moment to orient himself to the rush of thoughts and feelings that are coming from his friends. That the two are akin to night and day is plain enough to see, though their minds too are distinctly different and infinitely remarkable, pulling Charles in like a moth to a flame.

Erik shines like the sun, bold and bright and beautiful in his complexity. He is a study in contrasts; outwardly brash and brazen, hiding a mind full of kindness and gentle wonder.

Logan is the warmth of the evening sky, deep and dark and filled with unexpected light. He is honest, and candid, his words and his deeds matching those of a hidden and noble heart.

Charles can hardly believe his good luck; he’s found himself some interesting new friends who aren’t afraid of him. In fact, they are almost overwhelming with delight and fascination for Charles and his Gift, their thoughts a frenzied jumble of excited questions.

 _Can you hear me?_ Erik shouts in his mind, and both Logan and Charles wince at the unintended volume.

 _Yes,_ Charles says, _and you’re also very hungry right now, because it’s an hour past your meal time._

 _Brilliant,_ Logan thinks, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. _And what does Erik want to eat?_

 _Beef, roasted with potatoes,_ and Charles laughs at the way Erik starts licking his lips. _And he wants more of that yellow skinned fruit he tried yesterday for the first time. It’s called a mango._  Charles grins. _It’s my favorite too._

 _Will you--_  Erik starts, before he’s interrupted by the distant sound of a woman’s voice, calling Charles’ name. _Who is that?_

“I’ve got to go.” Charles jumps to his feet, almost knocking Erik back in his hurry to get up and dust the bits of grass and dirt off his clothes. “That’s Angel. She’s looking for me. I don’t want to get her in trouble.”

He starts running towards the sound, only remembering to turn back when Logan hollers after him.

“Wait! Are we going to see you again?”

Charles grins, and waves wildly at the confused faces staring after him. “Come back tomorrow!” he shouts, “I’ll bring mangoes!”  
  


* * *

  
He catches up to Angel further up the river, close to the castle walls at the edge of the woods. Doing a last quick check of his tunic and pants, he straightens his collar before calling out to her. “I’m here.”

“There you are,” Angel says, her smile exasperated but fond as Charles grins up at her, taking her hand to lead them back towards his rooms. “And just where have you been all morning?”

“I made new friends!” he blurts out, barely able to contain his excitement. “Down by the clearing, by the river’s bend! They’re close to my age and they’re both Gifted too!”

“I see,” she answers, and the smile that blooms across her face is tinged with mischief. “Did you find a prince? Or a princess? Perhaps you met your future mate today?”

Charles shrugs, pulling Angel inside the courtyard and through the large double doors to his section of the north wing. The guards they pass nod politely as they make their way down the corridors, and Charles hopes they’ll feign ignorance at his obvious escape from the day’s studies. “I don’t know. Maybe. Logan and Erik are both alphas, and I think Erik is a prince.”

His Mother speaks with him often about his duties as the future King of Westchester, and his need to take an alpha mate when he comes of age. He thinks idly of Erik and Logan’s antics by the river today and has a hard time imagining being married – even in the distant future - to _either_ of them.

“Well,” Angel continues, as she pushes the door to Charles’ chambers and leads them inside. “I wouldn’t tell the Queen you were alone with two alphas today, no matter their age. Not if you want to be let outside of these four walls again for the next two years.”

Charles freezes, turning to stare at Angel in horror. “No! Please you have to help me keep this secret! Please! I promised to see them tomorrow! They’re my friends and I don’t have _any_ , except for Henry and he’s too little to—”

“Shh.” Angel gives his hand a tug and he goes to hug her, throwing his arms around her back, taking care not to crush her wings. She gives him a kiss on the top of his head, stroking his curls with a gentle touch. “Don’t worry, she’s busy hosting the royal guests this afternoon in the Great Room.”

“Oh,” he says and breathes a sigh of relief. “Good.”

Angel smiles and then pinches his cheek, earning a glare and a scowl from Charles. “Yes, but not good for long. You have to hurry and get cleaned up and put on your new clothes!”

“What? Why?”

“Come on. You have an audience tonight with Seer Adler,” she says, as she drags Charles by the arm towards the bathing chamber. “She's going to read the signs and divine your future.”

 


	3. The Seer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lehnsherrs get a surprise visitor. And the children get their readings from Seer Adler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, [here's the link](http://gerec.tumblr.com/post/120184487026/gods-or-mortals-i-spent-way-too-much-time) to a post with my fancast choices for the Xaviers and the Lehnsherrs.

The trek between the clearing and the guest wing seems to take twice as long on the way back, as Logan and Erik trudge along the stone path towards the East Gate. They are both exhausted and hungry, content to make their way to their shared quarters in companionable silence. The grounds are bustling with activity all around them; servants watering the roses in the immaculate gardens they pass and cleaning doors and windows adorned with the Xavier’s blue and silver heraldry.

“Do you think we’ll see Charles again?” Erik asks, scratching his nose absently as they wander through the outer doors and into the east wing. “He ran off pretty fast.”

Logan certainly hopes so; though they’ve only known Charles for a few short hours, he’s already grown quite fond of the boy’s sweet and curious nature. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Huh.”

Erik doesn’t say anything again until they are almost to their rooms, where he turns to Logan with a slight frown on his face.

“Who do you suppose he is?” Erik muses, his eyes darting up and down the hallways, as though he's expecting Charles to jump out from behind one of the closed doors. “A servant boy? Or perhaps the son of one of the Westchester knights?”

“You…what?” He’s too surprised to form an articulate response, following Erik into their sitting room and watching as he drops his sword on the table with a soft clang. “You think Charles is a _servant_?”

Erik scowls. “It doesn’t matter who he is, Logan! I only want to know so I can tell Papa we want to see him again. Maybe he’ll help us find Charles so we can visit him after tonight’s dinner thing. Feast. Whatever.”

He can’t help it – he laughs and laughs at Erik’s assumptions, making the Prince scowl even harder as Logan flops down onto one of the sedans. He forgets sometimes that Erik is only ten years old, with little patience for the minutiae of court etiquette and the political landscape of Genosha’s neighbors. Unlike Erik, Logan is not royalty or the King’s heir; _he_ is expected to know his place and those of his betters.

“Tonight’s event is ‘The Feast of Calling’,” he explains, unbuckling his own sword and laying it gently beside him on the sedan. “It is the traditional welcome dinner for the Seer, as well as a celebration of the readings she will do over the next three days. You should pay attention to your lessons.”

They are interrupted by two servants carrying in trays of meats, bread, fruit and cheese, along with flagons of watered down ale and goat’s milk. Erik pounces on the food before the one page boy has even finished laying it all out, and Logan gives them a nod of thanks as they retreat from the room with a slight bow.

“Lessons are boring,” Erik says, shoveling hunks of bread into his mouth between sips of milk, “and I have _you_ to pay attention to these things.”

Logan shakes his head. “It’s a good thing too,” he answers, helping himself to some of the delicious spread on the table. “So I can tell you that Charles is not a servant or the son of one of the King’s men. Rather, he is the son of King Brian himself, and heir to the throne of Westchester.”

“He’s _what_?”

“The Crown Prince,” Logan continues, deliberately ignoring the disbelief on Erik’s face. “Charles Francis Xavier, the only child of King Brian and Queen Sharon. You know, the _omega child of prophecy_.”

Everyone in the seven kingdoms of Heven knows the story; of the Seer’s pronouncement on the new born child, mere days after his birth. Of the week long celebration that followed, the arrival of the babe said to herald a new and unprecedented era of power and prosperity for the people of Westchester.

“Charles?” Erik asks, voice incredulous. “ _Our_ Charles? But…he’s so tiny!”

Logan chuckles, taking a long, slow sip from his own mug of ale. “Well he’s only eight now, Erik. We can hardly expect Charles to lead armies and conquer the world yet.”

“I guess.” Erik pouts and Logan smiles at his sullen expression. “How did you know?”

In fact it had taken very little time at all, for Logan to guess their visitor’s true identity. Charles is mannered and well-spoken for his young age, and clad in borrowed clothing clearly meant to disguise. A servant boy would hardly have the time or freedom to spy on the guests, and a knight or lord’s son would not wear a signet ring bearing the mark of the House of Xavier.

And though Charles is still years away from presenting fully, Logan’s keen senses could already detect the telltale scent of an unmated omega.

“Well, I could—“

“Erik!”

It is the Queen that cuts through his response, announcing her presence mere moments before she sweeps into the room, the train of her russet gown trailing behind her. Logan scrambles to his feet and bows as Edie draws Erik into her arms with a smile, thumb gentle as she brushes a smudge of dirt off his chin.

“Mama, stop!” Erik protests, though he is grinning up at his mother as she laughs.  “I can do it myself.”

Edie sighs, winking at Logan as she waves her arm impatiently, signaling for him to sit. “Clearly not,” she says to Erik with a mock frown. “You are covered in dirt and sweat and smell like the stable hands. Is that how you plan to greet your uncle?”

“Uncle? Is Uncle Sebastian here? But we’re not supposed to see him for another two months! What is he doing in Westchester?”

“I’m here to see my favorite nephew of course,” comes the booming voice, and Erik runs from Edie’s side to throw his arms around Sebastian Shaw as he steps through the door. The man is dressed in finery of black velvet with gold trim, more luxurious than anything Logan has seen in the Genoshan court, even on the King and Queen. “You’re getting your reading from the Seer,” Shaw says, heedless of the dirt on Erik’s clothes as he wraps an arm around his shoulder. “It’s a very important moment for you, my dear boy. One I wouldn’t want to miss.”

“And we are very lucky indeed Sebastian, that you could take the time to join us here, uninvited.”

The new voice belongs to King Jakob, his expression pinched as he enters the room behind Shaw. He reaches to ruffle Erik’s hair, garnering a laugh from his son before coming to stand beside Logan with a soft smile.

“Ah, the Xaviers have been most welcoming, considering my surprise appearance,” Sebastian answers mildly. He does not seem at all bothered by Jakob’s insinuation, his smile wide as his gaze sweeps over Erik and Edie. “I have missed my sister, Jakob, and dear Erik of course. I’m sure you can understand my desire to see them as much as possible.”

“Indeed I can,” Jakob replies with a chuckle, the laughter incongruous with the way his blue eyes narrow at his brother-in-law. “And I wouldn’t dream of keeping my wife from her only sibling.”  

“Jakob,” Edie interjects, a slight frown marring her elegant features. “We should let Sebastian get settled in his quarters. And the boys need to bathe and get ready for the Feast.”

The tension in the room is thick and tangible, as the King and Queen share an indecipherable look. Finally, Jakob sighs and scrubs his face tiredly, before clasping a broad hand on Logan’s shoulder. “You go ahead,” he says, “I need a few moments here with Logan. I’ll send him along to get ready when we’re finished.”

His answer seems to please the Queen, and she gifts her husband with a genuine smile. “Come along,” she says to Erik, who waves goodbye to his father, already chattering away with his uncle about their visit so far. Logan watches as they file out of the room, Edie holding Erik’s hand as Sebastian follows a few steps behind them. 

The room is quiet, as Jakob gives a reassuring squeeze to his shoulder, before sitting them both down on the sedan. Logan waits patiently for the King to speak, uncertain why he’s been asked to stay behind.

“What do you think of Sebastian Shaw,” he murmurs, startling Logan with his blunt question. “You may speak freely. I would like your honest opinion.”

“King Sebastian is very powerful and his kingdom is strong. He thinks very highly of the Gifted, and has always been polite to me, if somewhat distant. He seems very fond of Erik, and the Queen.”

Jakob laughs a loud, derisive sound that makes Logan flush with embarrassment. He gives Logan a pat on the back, and grins. “Who knew you could be such a diplomat, son? Perhaps I was wrong to prepare you for a life in the Royal Guard. What do you think? Would you like to be Erik’s chief advisor instead?”

Logan smiles. “Why not do both?”

The King laughs again, his amusement no longer tinged with a bitter edge. “I have no doubt that you can do anything you set your mind to, Logan,” he says, chest swelling with pride. “I wish your mother could have lived to see the extraordinary young man you’ve become.”

“Thank you Sir,” Logan stammers. They rarely speak of Logan’s mother Elizabeth, who died when he was only eight years old. The daughter of a minor Genoshan noble, she never married, bearing an illegitimate child to great scandal. Disowned by the Howletts she eventually became a lady-in-waiting for Queen Edie, with Logan becoming Ward of the King when she passed away after a long illness. 

It was not until Logan turned twelve, that he learned his true paternity.

“I still miss her,” Jakob admits, his voice low and soft with longing. “I loved her very much, Logan, and yet I failed her. Failed both of you. Your mother should have been Queen of Genosha. And you, the Crown Prince.”

“I know this,” Logan answers, “I understand.”

“And yet _I_ still don’t understand. How I could let your mother bear the scorn of the entire Genoshan nobility for the good of my throne. I could have ended my engagement with Edie--”

“You couldn’t risk a war with Aerie for slighting their Princess.”

“—or found some other way to take care of you both.” Jakob sighs, putting his arm around Logan and pulling him close. “I’m not worthy of her faith in me, nor of the gift she gave me. I can only tell you again, how sorry I am, my son. That I can’t give you your birthright.”

It’s a conversation they’ve had before, and though Jakob still bears the guilt from his inaction, Logan has long moved past his own feelings of hurt and betrayal. The letters his mother left behind helped to ease the pain of her passing, and had done much to explain her decision to conceal his parentage. It was not only for the sake of the Genosha’s stability, she had written, but also for the happiness of her only child. That he should grow up with the privileges of royalty, but without the burdens and sacrifices that it entailed.

“Truly, I’m happy…Father,” Logan says hesitantly, and Jakob’s response is to place a gentle kiss on the top of his head. He does his best not to tense at the unexpected show of affection; though the King has always been warm and kind, Logan is unused to such open and focused attention. “I don’t want to be Crown Prince, nor do I feel mistreated or wanting. I’m happy to be who I am. To be Logan Howlett, and to be free.”

“I know. You have been a blessing to me and to your brother, Logan. Erik is lucky to have you looking out for him.”

“I love him. I’d do anything for him.”

Jakob smiles, patting him on the back with a satisfied grunt. “I know that too, and Erik feels the same way about you. I pray to the gods that never changes.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, one that Logan enjoys much more than the previous outpouring of emotion. It’s not that he doesn’t crave Jakob’s love or affection, but he is used to maintaining a certain distance to the royal family. It would not do for others to perceive a closer bond between them than what exists between the King and the Crown Prince, and Logan would never do anything to undermine Erik’s place as heir to the throne.

“You were asking me about King Sebastian,” Logan prompted, bringing Jakob back to the present, pulling him from a quiet reverie. “May I ask why?”

The frown returns to Jakob’s face, his eyes narrowing as he looks in the direction where the Queen and Erik made their earlier exit. “I’m concerned about his influence over Erik,” he explains. “Aerie has always been a land of the Gifted, and Shaw is not shy about his views of superiority over those born without the Gift. You know our kingdom’s history, Logan; why our people broke away from Aerie in the first place. I don’t want Erik to learn from Shaw, and treat the majority of Genosha’s populace as second class citizens.”

“He wouldn’t,” Logan argues, feeling the need to defend Erik against Jakob’s misgivings. “You and the Queen aren’t Gifted and he worships you both! He would never embrace Shaw’s teachings over yours! Your approval means everything to him!”

“Let us hope so,” Jakob answers, and though his voice is solemn he gives Logan an encouraging smile. “I’m counting on you to keep an eye on him. And to help him make good decisions when he becomes King.”

 

* * *

 

Erik spends most of the Feast with his eyes glued to the Xaviers, their table set above the others on an elevated platform trimmed in sapphire blue.  They are outdoors, in the magnificent gardens that Erik and Logan had passed through earlier in the day, now lit with two dozen torches under a warm, starlit sky.

At the center is King Brian, speaking animatedly with Seer Adler in the place of honor to his right. Erik can barely make out the Seer’s face, covered as she is from head to toe by a hood and cloak in midnight blue. To his left sits not the Queen as tradition dictates but Charles, much subdued in his collared tunic, every inch of him polished and refined. He spends much of the Feast speaking softly to Queen Sharon, who seems to Erik as beautiful as the moon, and just as remote.

The guests themselves are all seated at tables of their own, arranged in a wide semi-circle facing their hosts. Logan had taken the time before dinner to point out the others in attendance; all members of the royal families of Wakanda, Attilan and Sakaar.

Armando, son of Queen Ororo of Wakanda is here with his mother, smiling and clapping along to the rousing strains of the lyre. He is Gifted, according to Logan, with the ability to adapt his body quickly to its surroundings, while the Queen herself is blessed with mastery over the elements. ‘The Storm Queen’ is much beloved by her countrymen, and revered throughout a bountiful land steeped in tradition.

From Attilan hails Anthony Stark, crowned King at the tender age of seven due to the untimely deaths of his parents just one year ago. He sits and picks at his food, alternating between boredom and restless fidgeting as his regent Obadiah Stane looks on with mild disapproval.

Last of the guests are the Markos from Sakaar; King Kurt and his son Cain, a teenaged boy already grown into a man’s body. A close friend of the Xaviers, the King is gregarious and warm, leading more than one toast to the Seer and their hosts, while the Prince sits mostly with a scowl on his face, his dark eyes intent on an oblivious Charles.

“You’ve been watching young Xavier all night,” his uncle muses, interrupting Erik’s thoughts as he leans close. “Have you met him? Or is it love at first sight?”

He splutters indignantly, making Sebastian laugh at his reaction. “Charles? What…no! Charles is just a little kid! It’s only that Logan and I met him this morning, when we were out sparring by the river. His Gift is amazing, Uncle. He can hear what you’re thinking and speak inside your head.”

“A mind reader?” Sebastian hums, eyes taking in the prince with renewed interest. “Useful. And powerful. I find it quite curious that the Xaviers are being so closed lipped about the boy’s Gift. I wonder why?”

Erik shrugs. “Charles said something about his mother being concerned. That he won’t be able to attract an ideal alpha mate if his Gift is too strange or too powerful.”

His uncle rolls his eyes, offering a derisive snort as he takes a sip from his fine jeweled goblet. “Westchester, the richest kingdom in Heven with the greatest history, and yet their Queen still subscribes to such antiquated views about omegas. You listen to me, Erik, and remember this; marry for love, and your mate’s Gift won’t matter at all. Nothing will.”

If his uncle’s words seem particularly fervent he barely notices, his thoughts drifting back to Charles and to his pending visit with the Seer. He wonders when he will be called to his reading; though it is customary to see the children of the host kingdom first it has not always been the case. His father and his uncle both say that he alone controls the path of his life, and tells him not to take too much stock in visions and prophecies. And yet he can’t help but hope for the promise of a glorious reign, if only to make his father proud.

When the last of the lavish courses have been served and consumed, the Seer bids the assembled guests good night, making her way out of the gardens. Her assistant, a Gifted of no more than sixteen with large wings on his back, bows to the King and Queen of Westchester. Together they speak in soft tones too low for Erik to hear, though he can see King Brian nodding along to the young man’s words. When they finish Erik expects the blond to lead Charles away, and is surprised when he makes his way instead to their table.

“Your Majesties,” the assistant says, bowing respectfully to acknowledge both his parents and his uncle. “The Seer has asked for Prince Erik’s presence tonight.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” his mother asks with a slight frown on her face. “Is Prince Charles not accompanying you to the Seer for his reading? Why does she want to see Erik?”

“Seer Adler wishes to see them both,” he answers, “as well as your Ward, King Jakob.”

His father looks startled, his eyes darting towards Logan sitting at the far end of the table. “This is most irregular. Can you share the reason for such a strange request?”

The young man gives them an apologetic smile. “The Seer did not say. She only asked that I bring the Princes and your Ward together for their reading.”

There is an awkward silence as his parents share bewildered looks, until his uncle interjects with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure the Seer has good reasons for her unorthodox request. Why not send the boys to see her together? I don’t see how it could possibly make a difference.”

Though Sebastian’s disdain is apparent to all, the Seer’s assistant appears largely unaffected. He continues to smile warmly at Jakob and Edie, until Jakob finally turns to address Erik and Logan.

“Go with him, and remember to conduct yourselves accordingly.”

At his father’s words he scrambles to stand, bidding a hasty goodbye to the others at the table. Logan quickly appears by his side and together, they follow the young man to the garden’s edge where Charles is already waiting. A woman with long hair and eyes of chestnut brown stands with her arm protectively around Charles, though she does smile at the sight of Erik and Logan.

“Charles,” he blurts out, “you never told us you were a prince!”

It’s not what he means to say at all, though luckily Charles seems untroubled by his outburst. “Well you never asked me who I was, did you?” he answers Erik with a grin. Logan laughs, and the woman smiles fondly at them both as they follow the young man along the garden path and into the doors leading to the north wing.

“This is Angel,” Charles introduces, as they wind their way through the near empty hallways, holding the woman’s hand as they walk side by side. Erik and Logan follow behind, watching with amusement as Charles cranes his neck backwards to speak to them. “She’s my nurse. And that’s Warren. He’s a healer, in addition to his duties as the Seer’s assistant.”

“Why are we going this way?” Logan asks, his brow furrowed as they pass two guards standing at the entrance to what appears to be a long corridor. “This isn’t the guest wing. Aren’t we going to the Seer?”

Angel is the one that answers, as they come to a stop at the last door in the hall. “This is the royal wing, where the King and Queen and the Prince’s quarters are located. The Seer has a set of permanent rooms here as well, since she’s taken to spending a few months of each year here in Westchester.”

The doors open without a sound, and Erik and the others file in behind Warren, the boys all trying their best not to fidget. Unlike their own guest quarters the room is almost empty of luxury or decoration, the walls and ceilings painted in a soothing palette of blues and greens.

“My Lady. Prince Charles of Westchester, Prince Erik and James Howlett of Genosha.”

Warren bows reverently to the figure seated in one of the carved wooden chairs, before withdrawing from the main sitting room, leaving the boys and Angel alone in the Seer’s presence. Angel herself departs soon after, though not before giving Charles a gentle hug and whispering quietly in his ear.

Once the door closes the Seer moves, to where her guests are still standing together in the middle of the room. From this distance Erik can see long white hair beneath the dark hood, and a pair of unseeing eyes that seem to pierce them in their place.

It is Charles that steps forward and bows, manners impeccable as he looks up at the intimidating presence. “Lady Irene. We are here at your service.”

A warm chuckle rolls slowly past the Seer’s lips, the smile softening the sharp angles of her ageless face. “It is I who is at your service, Your Highness. Come with me and we shall begin.”

They follow her past a set of double doors and outside once more, the overgrown grass and surrounding trees more akin to forest than garden inside the castle grounds. The air is warm and thick with the scent of lush flowers in bloom, the sounds of the Feast too far away to penetrate this secret haven. At the center of the wooded area lies a pond clear as glass, the still waters capturing the full moon in its embrace.

“Please sit,” the Seer instructs, and Erik and Logan drop carefully beside the edge of the pond, with Charles sandwiched between them. The Seer follows, taking a wooden ladle from a bucket on the ground and pressing it into Charles’ hands.

“Drink, and let the waters cleanse your spirit. Drink, and let the winds speak your fate.”

Charles spares a quick look at his friends, before dipping the ladle into the pond and taking a long drink. He passes the ladle to Erik next, who takes his own turn, the water crisp and inviting. Once Logan is finished the Seer places the ladle back in its place, settling on the grass with a soft sigh, her hand stirring lazy circles in the water.

“I see a wolf,” she murmurs, her unseeing eyes fixed upon Logan. “Claws of bone has he, and the blood of kings. Slow to anger, yet fierce when roused. A great hunter and a born nurturer. Bound in chains, but never tamed. Love is given and love denied.”

The expression on Logan’s face is thoughtful, if somewhat confused, though Erik has little time to reflect on her words before the Seer’s attention turns his way.

“A lion are you, fearless and brave. Born of steel is your resolve; your anger sets the world ablaze. Victory brings defeat, and loss, a gain. Eternal is your heart and your love everlasting.”

Erik’s head spins; the words are a meaningless jumble of contradictions, and he has no idea what to make of the Seer’s proclamations. He wants to interrupt, to ask her for an explanation but she has already moved on, her gaze falling finally onto Charles.

“The phoenix burns bright, a beacon in the dark. Fortunes rise and fortunes fall, and pain fuels the birth of an empire. Love is power and love is flaw; forever does your heart long for its home.”   

A breeze flutters through the air, gentle and comforting as a mother’s touch. It helps to ease some of the disquiet in Erik’s heart, the words of the Seer somewhat ominous in their telling.

“Three to start and three to end,” she continues, her attention focused now solely on the ripples in the water, “the threads of your lives bound by Fate. Yet the rise of the Lion sees the Phoenix fall, while the Wolf dwells with grief and betrayal. With the Phoenix reborn do fortunes shift; ties are broken and bonds remade. Blood is taken for payment owed, and Death gives birth to a new Spring.”

They stare at one another in stunned silence, the three of them trying to comprehend the Seer’s words. No matter how many times Erik tries he can make no sense of them, and the feeling of dread in his gut propels him to speak. “But what does it mean, My Lady? I don’t…none of it makes any sense!”

The Seer laughs, her voice ringing loud and clear in the quiet space, the expression on her face amused and inexplicably fond. “You are quite right, Your Highness. The gods speak through me in riddles, and it’s difficult to understand their intent. But I am not just a cipher, for I can see through the shifting sands of times yet to come.” She brings their hands together and squeezes, the gesture helping to alleviate some of their anxiety. “Ask your questions.”

For long moments she patiently waits, until Logan finally gathers his courage enough to speak. “I still don’t understand why I’m here? I’m not royalty…I don’t think I belong here.”

The Seer shrugs, the movement shifting her cloak enough to reveal a shimmer of white underneath. “You are brothers,” she answers and Logan freezes, hands clenching into fists until the Seer continues. “All of you, brothers in life and in death. This is not the first time you walk the path together, nor is it likely to be the last.”

“You speak of grief and betrayal,” Charles says, his voice barely a whisper. “And ties broken. Are we doomed then? To a life of hardship and pain? Is that to be our future?”

“I will not lie and say that the road is easy,” the Seer answers, pressing a hand against Charles’ face to cup his cheek gently. “But you will have happiness, and love. You are at your strongest together. Remember this, if nothing else. You souls are bound to each other; what one does affects the others. Choose wisely, and be well.”

“And if we do not?” Erik asks, his heart thumping wildly at the implications in the Seer’s words. “If we make mistakes, what will happen?”

“You will live, Your Highness, for what is life without trial? To be happy is to forgive those who have failed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Super awkward teen interactions when we time jump 4 years ahead!


	4. State Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Xaviers visit the Lehnsherrs in Genosha. And complicated feelings abound for Erik, Logan and Charles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is actually a 5 year (not 4) time skip between chapters 3 and 4; Charles is now 13, Erik is 15 and Logan is 18 :D
> 
> Also, reminder that 'Now' denotes the timeline from the Prologue, and the other dates (i.e. Year 192) reflect the timeline as we move forward from their first meeting as children.
> 
> **See chapter warnings below**

**_Now_ **

If Emma Frost is surprised to see him at the door, only a few hours before sunrise, she doesn’t show it, allowing Logan into Charles’ quarters without a word. He has never seen her dressed so casually before, in a flowing white gown and her long blonde hair loose, so different from the fancy armor she prefers in battle.

Armor she doesn’t really need, when she’s slicing through Logan’s men in her diamond form.

She leads him past the sitting room into the inner bed chamber, where Charles is just slipping on his gauntlets, already arrayed in ceremonial armor. They share a glance, the King and his General, speaking intimately through their shared Gift as Charles used to do with Logan years ago. Whatever transpires in their unspoken conversation must satisfy Frost, because she turns and exits the chamber with a brisk nod, closing the door firmly behind her.

“You’re leaving,” Logan states, eyes roaming around the room stripped bare of Charles’ belongings. “Were you just planning to disappear? Without telling us? Telling _me_?”

Charles’ eyes are cold when they meet Logan’s, his voice taking on a brittle and hard edge. “Yes.”

“Why?” he pushes and takes a few steps closer, close enough to reach out and touch. He stops abruptly when he catches an unfamiliar scent, breathing in a deep lungful of air as Charles wraps his arms unconsciously around his stomach.

Logan growls. “You’re carrying a child.” He knows without a doubt that the pregnancy is a recent one; Charles didn’t smell like this two weeks ago when they first arrived in Attilan. “Erik’s child.”

“ _My_ child,” Charles spits, tilting his chin up in defiance, a once endearing gesture Logan knows all too well. “Stay out of it, Logan. This doesn’t concern you.”

“The hell it doesn’t.” No matter what his former friend might think of him and his loyalties, he has never stopped loving Charles or wanting to help him. And he knows whatever Charles is planning can only cause more pain for them all; Logan would do anything, if it meant fixing their broken bonds.

“Save it,” Charles snaps, the expression on his face even more thunderous than before. “I don’t need your help _or_ your meddling. I suggest you go play hero and confidante to _your_ King. I should say he’s going to need it.”

Logan moves, but Charles is faster, sidestepping the intended embrace to press a previously unseen dagger right over his heart. They stare at each other for long moments, neither man breaking their gaze, until Charles finally drops his weapon and backs away with a sigh.

“You can’t fix this, because it doesn’t need _fixing_. I have everything that I came to get and now I’m going back to Westchester. I don’t need anything.” The bitter smile on Charles’ expressive face makes Logan cringe with old remembered guilt. “Certainly not from _you_. Not now. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, the memory of Charles’ tear stained and disheveled appearance - pleading for Logan to please help him, to _love_ him - sharp and raw as though it happened only yesterday. “I broke my promise to you, and failed you in your hour of need. But I swear that I love you and I always will, and that I’ll do anything to make things right. If you’ll let me. Please.”  

It is a long time before he gets an answer, Logan watching silently as Charles paces back and forth in the room, contemplating his words. When he finally stops, he looks softer, and a little rueful, and Logan’s heart swells with anticipation and hope unexpected.

“Come with me,” Charles whispers, earnest and cautious, wearing the same expression on his face as the one Logan recalls so clearly on the shy eight year old he once caught, spying on him and Erik from behind a large oak tree. He feels the urge to weep bitter tears of joy when Charles actually reaches to pull him close, allowing Logan to wrap his arms around him, to _touch_ him again, a simple gesture of comfort and trust long sought for and denied.

“Leave Genosha, and join me,” Charles offers, laying his head against Logan’s chest, no doubt close enough to hear the erratic beating of his heart. Close enough to know that Charles yet holds undisputed claim, as he always has, and always will.

“Choose _me_ this time, Logan, and I will forgive everything.”

 

* * *

 

 **_Year 192, Age of Storms  
_** **_Lehnsherr Keep, Genosha_ **

_In Prince Charles’ thirteenth year, the Royal Family received an invitation from King Jakob and Queen Edie for an extended visit to the Genoshan Capital of Hammer Bay. It should be noted that diplomatic ties between Genosha and Westchester flourished greatly since the Seer’s Visit, due at least in part to the strong friendship that developed between the two kingdoms’ respective heirs to the throne..._

\-----

In the years since their first meeting, Erik – along with Logan - visited with Charles at least once a year, usually during the early days of a warm Westchester Spring. Both their fathers were keen to foster close ties of friendship between the three boys, in the hopes that a strong bond would mitigate the trials the Seer foresaw in their future. That the increased contact and resulting trade served both kingdoms well was an unspoken benefit, as luxury goods like silks and olive oil flowed abundantly into the mountainous kingdom of Genosha, in exchange for iron and copper and the finest steeds for the warm coastal lands of Westchester.

Truthfully Erik cared little for the reasons, political or otherwise; he was simply happy to continue his friendship with Charles, and to be allowed to see him at least once a year. Until now, it had always been Erik and Logan who would make the weeks long journey from Hammer Bay to Graymalkin, accompanied sometimes by one of his parents and other times by Duke Summers and a large contingent of the Royal Guard. It was only after Charles turned thirteen that Queen Sharon finally agreed to allow her son to travel to Genosha in return, and only as part of an official state visit for the entire royal family.

Erik has never been happier than the day Charles stepped out of the blue and silver coach behind his parents, smile wide and bright as the morning sun the moment they locked eyes. Logan had to nudge him when his parents moved forward to greet the Xaviers, stunned as he was at the physical changes that one short year had wrought on his friend.

He remembered saying goodbye to a _child_ ; how he ruffled Charles’ hair playfully and received a pout and a half-hearted punch in the arm, before climbing onto his horse and riding away. But _now_ – now Charles seemed so different in Erik’s eyes, taller and hardier and altogether more grown up than he’d expected.

And Logan too seemed affected by the noticeable change, though he was much more discreet with his appraisal. The Charles they knew had always carried himself with an air of grace, though now he wore his nobility like a second skin, drawing the rapt attention of the gathered crowd as he trailed behind King Brian and Queen Sharon into the Keep.

Erik spent much of that first day making a complete fool of himself, sputtering as Charles teased him mercilessly for his own growth spurt and gangly appearance, while a traitorous Logan looked on with quiet amusement. It had taken Charles tripping him on their way back to the guest rooms after the welcome dinner – earning him a sharp glare from Edie and a barely suppressed chuckle from Brian - to shake Erik out of his admittedly strange mood. And then it was as though no time had passed and nothing had changed, and Charles was just _their little Charles_ after all.

The first two weeks of the Xaviers’ visit were spent exploring the Keep and the surrounding area, with Charles demanding to be shown _everything_ about the Capital and every secret hideout or favorite past time that Erik and Logan had ever shared together. Of course Erik was happy to indulge Charles as ever, and filled their days with as many adventures as he could possibly fit, with Logan always there to keep them out of trouble and to keep them safe.

There were hikes up and down the foothills just outside Hammer Bay, with Charles exclaiming excitedly over the magnificent view at sunrise. They went hunting in the woods for game birds and deer, where Charles’ steady hand and keen eye with the bow put both Erik and Logan’s skills to shame. And there was the day they spent in the royal stables watching one of Edie’s prized mares give birth, and Charles had smiled so sweetly, squeezing his hand as the wobbly foal took its first, tentative steps.

Yes, Erik’s never been happier than these past few weeks, with Charles as a near constant companion.

He just wishes he didn’t feel quite so irritable and _hollow_ , every time he has to leave Charles’ side.  
  


* * *

  
“You’re in a right mood today. Did something happen with the pretty princeling?”

Erik sighs, kicking a jagged rock off the path as they trudge from the sparring grounds towards the barracks. He and Alex are on their way to their respective duties for the day – Alex to his post with the Royal Guard and Erik to join his parents for the noon meal and then to observe during Open Court. With his fifteenth birthday had come new responsibilities as heir to the throne, with Erik expected to participate once a week to hear petitions and news of the land presented to the King and Queen. It’s something he’s grown to enjoy quite a lot, though today he is less than enthusiastic at the prospect of sitting still for hours in the Throne Room.

Without Charles.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, “and I dare you to call him that to his face. I should like to see him break your nose with his pretty fist.”

Alex whistles, and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t dare. He’s got a temper on him, that one. I like my nose just the way it is, thanks.” When Erik doesn’t answer him, he continues, “You’re upset aren’t you? That Charles stayed to train with Logan? Instead of coming back with you?”

It makes him feel stupid and petty to hear Alex lay it out so plainly, but that’s exactly how Erik feels about the two of them spending time alone. He knows that Logan is in a better position to train Charles, being the better fighter and more patient teacher, and that Logan missed Charles the past year just as much as Erik. But he can’t help feeling out of sorts at the thought of them laughing and sharing jokes without him, especially with the strange way Charles has been acting around Logan lately.

“I’m not upset. Logan is training Charles to fight with daggers, and it’s not like I can help him there…I’m just tired.”

“Sure you are,” Alex says, eyeing him skeptically as they enter the barracks and make their way to the weapons racks, slinging their collection of axes, long swords and bows off their backs and onto the stone floor with a clatter. “You know you don’t have to be jealous, right? Everybody knows you’re going to marry Charles when he comes of age.”

“Everybody _doesn’t_ know that,” he answers, rolling his eyes. “It’ll be Charles’ decision who he marries, and it might not be me. There’s no shortage of eligible alphas out there clamoring to marry the ‘ _omega child of prophecy’_.”

“Okay yes, but we both know that Charles can only marry royalty, which means it has to be a prince or a princess! Plus the two of you are best friends already! Come on, Erik. Don’t tell me that all these visits are just about trade and bettering relations between Genosha and Westchester. Your mother at least means to make the match, and I don’t think King Brian is opposed to it either.”

They strip and wipe the weapons down before hanging them back in place, and Erik takes a moment to consider Alex’s words as they work. He and Charles have never really talked about the future, or about the possibility that the two of them might be joined in marriage. But he can’t deny that the idea appeals to him now, the thought of ruling Genosha with Charles at his side, friends and lovers for the rest of their days.

“Look I’m not jealous,” Erik insists, ignoring Alex’s answering smirk. “It’s just that Charles is only here for another two weeks and I want to spend as much time with him as I can. I don’t want to be stuck in Court all afternoon when all they’re going to talk about is your brother’s engagement to the Lady Frost. Speaking of which,” Erik adds, “how does Scott feel about it? Being paired with someone twelve years his senior?”

Alex shrugs, which doesn’t really surprise Erik; the two Summers brothers have never been particularly close, their wildly differing personalities causing them to clash frequently at home and on the training grounds. “I don’t know, lucky? And he _should_ , Emma Frost is absolutely stunning, and a powerfully Gifted alpha. Too good for Scott if you ask me.”

“Mama thinks it’s a perfect match,” Erik remarks, as they stack the last of the weapons away, and head back out into the courtyard. “The son of the Duke betrothed to my uncle’s General, a good way to strengthen ties between Aerie and Genosha.”

He waves a quick good bye then as Alex leaves to join the other knights’ apprentices in the dining hall, and makes his way inside, walking briskly towards his parents’ chambers where they take their meal together on Open Court days. It gives the King and Queen an opportunity to review the petitions ahead of time, and gives them much needed privacy to jointly discuss options and courses of action.

When he arrives, after a short stop in his own rooms to wash his face and throw on a set of clean clothes, he finds his parents already waiting, the servants just setting the last of the platters down on the table set for three.

“Ah, there you are, Erik. Come and sit, you must be starving.”

Edie reaches to squeeze his hand when he drops into the chair beside her, while Jakob starts piling bread and cheese on his plate, next to his bowl of vension stew. He starts digging in immediately, the smell of the herbs and earthy flavors of the broth easing the growling in his stomach as his parents look on with fond expressions and amused chuckles they don’t bother to hide.

“How was training? Where are the boys?” his father asks.

“Still at it,” he answers around a mouthful of cheese, which earns him a sharp tsk from Edie. He swallows and takes a quick sip of ale before continuing, “Charles wants Logan to teach him to use daggers, since he’s not very good with the long swords. Logan thinks daggers will work best since Charles is so fast and agile.”

“That’s good,” Jakob says with a smile. “Logan is an excellent warrior and a fine teacher. He’ll have Charles beating you in no time.”

“Hey!”

His father laughs and pats his head, which garners a scowl from Erik and a grin from Edie as they continue their meal. Soon enough the focus moves to the issues being raised in Court today – and as Erik had guessed earlier – to the Summers/Frost engagement. His attention strays quickly from all the excruciating talk about gifts and dates and treaties, and settles back onto his food and to the sparring session he’s currently missing. He ignores the conversation for much of the meal, until the sound of Logan’s name promptly pulls his attention back to the present.

“What was that?” he interrupts, looking up from his plate to find that both his parents have already finished their meals. “What did you say about Logan?”

“Erik, how are you supposed to learn if you don’t pay attention?” Jakob chides. “There is much to understand about ruling a kingdom; at the very least I expect you to know what’s happening in Genosha right now. You’re not a child anymore.”

He winces. “Sorry, Papa.”

His mother reaches over to brush a stray hair out of his eyes, her gentle smile lessening the sting of Jakob’ rebuke. “We were talking about the petition from the Vikaars, to reduce taxes for this year. Their Chieftain is citing a difficult harvest and has asked that we waive their tribute. It’s a ploy they’ve used in the past to try and get out of fulfilling their obligations to the Crown. They have never been happy living under Genoshan rule, and I believe it’s only a matter of time before they rebel.”

“What does that have to do with Logan?”

Jakob rolls his eyes, though the exasperated look is directed not at Erik but at his wife. “Your mother suggested that I marry Logan off to the Chieftain’s daughter. A gesture of good will, to show that we value the treaty, but really to put someone loyal to the Crown amongst the woodsmen to watch for signs of unrest.”

Edie shrugs, and takes a slow sip from her goblet. “It’s a sound plan, though your father disagrees. He is determined to have you and Logan marry for _love_ , as though such a thing exists for those born to royalty.”

“It is not a bad thing to want for the children, Edie,” his father says, tone soft and imploring as he reaches for his wife’s hand. “Let us not talk of arranging marriages for the boys; they are young enough yet.”

His mother returns the gesture with a smile, and sighs. “No more talk of marriages then, as you say. Though I don’t think this problem with the Vikaars will go away so easily.”

Erik does not hear much more of the conversation that follows, moving quietly after the King and Queen as they make their way to the Throne Room. He is too busy thinking about the prospect of marriage, and what it might mean for him some day. Erik is glad at least that his father wants a marriage of love not just for him, but also for Logan; he does not want to think of his best friend stuck in a relationship devoid of love for the sake of politics or convenience.

The passage to the Throne Room opens before them, the sound of the herald announcing their entrance, and Erik finds his thoughts drifting once more to Charles’ smile before he steps through the door.  
  


* * *

  
Logan watches as Erik stomps away with Alex at his heels, his displeasure radiating from every inch of his tall and lanky body. He should not find it so amusing, this childish display of temper, but Logan can’t help but chuckle at Erik’s inability to spend even a single day without bickering with Charles.

Not that he places the blame solely on Erik’s shoulders; Charles has proven himself more than capable of being equally stubborn and demanding.

“Come on, Logan. I want to try again.”

He turns his attention back to Charles and smiles, pleased that his suggestion to train with daggers has been so well received. Though Charles is no longer a child he has yet to fully grow into his adult body, and lacks the strength and height to effectively wield an axe or a longsword. Fighting with daggers allows Charles to use his natural speed and agility to his advantage, and he seems determined to master it, as with every other facet of his life.

“Alright,” Logan answers, “show me what you remember.”

Without hesitation Charles lunges, his moves sharp and precise as he works through the stances and maneuvers over and over again in the early afternoon heat. Even at this early stage of training Logan can tell that the weapon suits him well; Charles in motion is both graceful and athletic, the daggers already resembling a natural extension of his limbs.

They train for another hour on their own, the grounds all but vacant as the other guards and soldiers slowly depart for their noon meal. Logan finds it harder and harder to concentrate as time ticks by, the faint scent of omega growing ever stronger as beads of sweat gather across Charles’ forehead and soak through his thin cotton tunic. It doesn’t help that Charles leans into his touch at every opportunity, closing the distance between their bodies every time Logan tries to demonstrate a new move or to correct his stance.

“Charles,” he finally snaps, the uncomfortable coil of desire – wholly inappropriate given Charles’ station and young age – making him snarl with impatience. “What are you doing?”

His show of temper doesn’t appear to have any effect on Charles, who gazes up at him with a mischievous gleam in his eye. “I’m training. Why? Is something wrong?” Charles teases, before placing a hand on Logan’s naked chest, right over his heart. “Can I do anything? To help?”

The press of Charles’ fingertips on his skin sends a jolt of lust through Logan’s body, making him jerk away and take an unconscious step back. But Charles only grins at him, and closes the distance again, more than a little pleased at garnering such a strong reaction.

“Don’t—” Logan starts, and then his throat goes dry when Charles reaches to trail soft fingers along his bicep and down his arm. _Whatever you think you’re doing. Stop._

Charles’ brow crinkles for just a moment, his smile a little unsure, before it morphs back into a teasing grin. _I don’t think you want me to stop, Logan. I know you like me. I know you want to kiss me. I want you to kiss me too._

_I’m eighteen and you’re only thirteen. You’re too--_

_I’m not too young,_ Charles interrupts with a scowl. _I know what it is that alphas do with omegas. I’m a mind reader; I’ve seen it all before._

Logan rubs his face with his hands, and then gently pushes Charles back until he’s no longer pressed up against him. _You may have seen it, but you don’t know what it means, or how it feels. You’re too young to…do whatever it is you think you want to do, Charles. And Erik—_

A tangled rush of emotions hits Logan all at once – longing, annoyance, fear, curiosity, need – as Charles throws his arms around his neck and tugs him close. He groans when Charles kisses him then, mouth warm and body soft and pliant, as glorious and perfect as Logan could have ever imagined. It is impossible to think of anything but Charles in that moment; to want anything than to please the one he cherishes most in this world.

 _Yes,_ Charles whispers, hands gripping him tightly, tangling in his hair as he moans against Logan’s lips. _I want you. I want to be with you, not Erik. They all think I have to marry him but I don’t. I can be with whomever I want._

The words sober him like a bucket of cold water dumped over his head, and he pulls away so quickly that Charles almost trips and falls over. He ignores the hurt and confusion radiating from Charles and turns, digging through his pile of belongings to take a long drink from his water skin.

“What’s the matter? Did you…did I do it wrong?”

Logan winces at the question, and shakes his head, unable to look at Charles and see the uncertainty and embarrassment blooming across his face. He should have understood this for what it was – an attempt on Charles’ part to rebel against all the expectations placed on him as both heir to Westchester and the omega of prophecy.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, but we can’t…we can’t, alright? You’re a prince and you will marry royalty, and nothing can ever happen between us, no matter what…”

“No matter what we want?” Charles asks, and Logan hates himself for the hurt and disappointment he can hear in Charles’ voice. “No matter how you feel about me? I know, I _know_ what’s in your heart, Logan. I know that you love me.”

_“You love him,” Edie says, surprising Logan as she takes a seat beside him on the bench, her eyes darting between Charles and Erik as they spar together under Jakob’s watchful eye. “It’s all over your face, my sweet boy, every time you look at him.”_

_He thinks about it for a moment, lying to the Queen that he has any feelings for Charles, though Edie knows him well enough to see through any such pretense. Instead, he merely hums and doesn’t answer, which makes Edie sigh a little ruefully as she takes his hand between her own._

_“He is heir to the throne of Westchester, and the laws of his land dictate that he must marry a prince, or a princess. Unlike you, Charles does not have the luxury of marrying solely for love. If he chooses you, Logan, it will only ever lead to heartbreak. For you and for Charles.”_

_“I know,” he answers, as Edie squeezes his hand. “I know.”_

Logan swallows the bile in his throat, before pressing a soft kiss on Charles’ forehead. “I do love you. As a brother, and a friend. That is all that can ever be between us, I’m sorry.”

A riot of emotions flash across Charles’ expressive face, denial and disbelief both as he narrows his eyes at Logan. It’s for the best he reminds himself, no matter how much it hurts right now; and Charles will come to agree with him.

Some day.

“You’re a liar!” Charles shouts, shoving Logan with both hands as he stumbles up the path towards the Keep.  He breaks into a run as Logan calls out after him, vanishing around the bend amidst the thick copse of trees without looking back.

“Yes,” Logan murmurs as he slumps onto the ground, tired and heartsick, staring at the spot where Charles disappeared into the woods. “But it’s better this way.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning:** Underage kiss
> 
> Charles' POV in the next chapter, as well as his first meeting with Sebastian Shaw!


	5. Secrets and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets are overheard and lies are revealed. And Charles has an encounter with the King of Aerie.

Charles runs.

He ignores the sound of Logan’s voice calling after him, the rush of humiliation and hurt making him blind to all else as he darts quickly through the underbrush and into the trees. His feet carry him up towards the Keep without pause, and he bolts quickly through the main courtyard, ignoring the curious stares of servants and guards as he passes. Charles runs and runs like a dragon is nipping at his heels, and he doesn’t stop until he reaches the top of the battlements, bursting through the heavy wooden door with barely contained rage.

Thankfully, the space is completely empty, and Charles slumps over and takes a deep breath, letting the pent up tension slowly drain from his limbs. He crosses to the parapet and leans against the edge, taking in the glorious view of the rocky beach and the blue waters of Hammer Bay spread out far below. The sunlight reflecting off the glassy surface reminds Charles unexpectedly of the lake near Graymalkin, and a sharp twinge of longing shoots through him for the friends he left back home.

He wishes for Raven, and for Hank too; for Raven’s teasing laughter and Hank’s curious nature to distract him from the sting of Logan’s rejection. His cousin would undoubtedly have another new book for Charles to read, heralding a new cure or useful invention they should bring to Westchester from abroad. And his friend Raven would use her Gift to shift into the form of one of his least favorite tutors or courtiers, mimicking their manner and speech to uproarious effect.

But they are _not_ here to commiserate with Charles over his failed attempt at seduction, and the heat of anger that fueled his journey from the training grounds has now faded to a dull and lingering ache. He had _known_ in his heart that Logan would reject him; that Logan’s morals and his sense of duty would ultimately prevail over his feelings for Charles, however deep. And yet he found himself unable to resist reaching out for more, wishing that for once Logan would be selfish, and choose happiness for himself.

That he would want Charles as much as Charles wanted _him_ , and throw caution to the wind if only for a few fleeting moments.

He paces along the battlements for what feels like an age, in the vain hope that Logan would eventually come searching for Charles in his – and Erik’s – old favorite hiding place. But no one comes for him as the time slowly passes, and there’s nothing but the call of the sea gulls and the distant roar of the waves to keep him company as he broods.

Frustrated and tired, Charles climbs the three steps up to the northeastern platform with the best view of the water, and slumps down to the ground with a sigh. Erik had shown him this exact spot just last week, explaining how he used to hide here from his tutors and the guards by ducking around the steps and crouching under the low stone barrier. It’s not the most comfortable of places to sit with Charles’ sore muscles from training, but he isn’t ready to head back down to his quarters yet, to face Angel’s sympathetic smile or risk his mother’s disapproving glare.

Charles stares moodily out beyond the crenels to the view below, until his stomach starts to balk at missing his noon meal. With a grunt he half pushes himself onto his feet, and then freezes as the tower door suddenly swings open with a creaking groan.

“–off to look for Charles I’m sure. He could barely sit still for the hour of Open Court, and raced out of the chamber like his feet were on fire.”

The sound of Queen Edie’s voice floats clearly across the empty battlements, and for a split second Charles is undecided – does he make her aware of his presence and let her send him off to find Erik? Or does he wait for the Queen to leave, to save himself the embarrassment of having to explain why he’s hiding like a fugitive in her Keep?

Charles’ decision is made when the answering voice of Erik’s uncle follows, the thought of being found hiding like a child by the Queen _and_ the King of Aerie too humiliating for words. He quickly dives back down behind the half-wall, just as the two royals round the corner towards the parapet and move ever closer to his hiding spot.

“Erik must be ecstatic to finally have Charles here in Hammer Bay. He's mentioned it every time he's written to me since the Xaviers agreed to the visit all those months ago.”

Sebastian Shaw’s voice is warm and inordinately fond, with none of the cloying sincerity he remembers from his own brief encounters with the King. In public, Shaw is a layer of hard edges veiled in easy charm; here in the sole company of his sister he seems markedly more soft and unguarded.

“He’s thrilled. And he’s hardly left Charles’ side for the past two weeks. Don't be too surprised if you see very little of him while the Xaviers are here.”

Shaw chuckles. “I won’t. I remember what it’s like, to be young and in love.”

The voices stop just a few feet from where Charles is hiding, the King and Queen no doubt taking in the view of the beach and beyond. His curiosity piqued, he peers cautiously around the corner until he can see the siblings standing side by side, with Sebastian’s arm slung casually over Edie’s shoulder.

A comfortable silence falls between them as Charles looks on, with the Queen eventually moving to rest her head against her brother’s shoulder. The gesture is easy and familiar, leaving Charles to marvel at the closeness that exists between Erik’s mother and beloved uncle.

“I have an early present for you,” Sebastian says, reaching into his pocket to pull out what appears to be a small jeweled box in red velvet. “I wanted to give it to you now, since I’ll be heading back home before your birthday.”

Edie looks surprised, and takes the box without a word, rolling it between her hands for long moments before handing it back to her brother. “I can’t take this.”

“You can.”

“It’s too much, Sebastian. This alone is worth the entirety of Genosha’s treasury.”

“It belongs to you.”

“It belonged to Mother. And to your future Queen or Consort.”

Shaw laughs, and takes her hand. “I have no plans to marry, Edie, as you well know. There’s no one else I want to give it to…only you.”

“You need an heir—”

“I _have_ an heir,” Sebastian interrupts, leaving Charles baffled by his next words. “Erik will be King of Aerie after me, as he’s meant to be.”

The Queen purses her lips in disapproval, and pulls away from her brother. “Erik is heir to the throne of Genosha, Seb. You will do well to stop undermining my husband.”

If Sebastian is affected by her response he doesn’t show it, his smile as wide and genial as ever. “Erik has Shaw blood in his veins, my darling Edie, and I would see Aerie and Genosha reunited under his rule.”

Edie shakes her head and sighs. “Jakob won’t like it.”

“It’s not up to him, what I choose to do with my own lands,” the King snaps, and it’s the first show of temper Charles glimpses from the seemingly unflappable monarch. “Your _husband_ is the weak head of a tiny kingdom. Erik deserves a better legacy than what Jakob Lehnsherr can give him.”

Instead of being angry, Edie simply purses her lips and turns away from Shaw, eyes scanning out towards the horizon. “He is _Jakob’s_ son, and he will take over his father’s kingdom when the time comes. It is enough for the both of them.”

Sebastian scoffs, though he sounds more amused than annoyed. “But it’s not enough for you, is it? You think I don’t know what you’re doing with the Xaviers? Trying to lay the groundwork for marriage between Erik and the Xavier boy? You may fool the others but you don’t fool me, sister. An alliance with the richest kingdom of Heven, with the omega of prophecy as your son-in-law? You intend to extend Genoshan influence beyond its inconsequential borders, and you would see them wed, even if their hearts do not desire it.”

“They are young; they may yet fall in love.”

“And you’ll do everything in your power to make it happen won’t you?” Sebastian counters. “Tell me, have you spoken yet to your husband’s pet? Warned him to stay away from Charles to clear the way for Erik?”

He waits for the Queen to react; to angrily deny the accusation leveled against her by her own brother. Over the years Charles has grown exceedingly fond of the Lehnsherrs, and the thought that Erik’s mother would do such a thing as to manipulate--

“You wound me, Sebastian,” the Queen answers, without an ounce of expected hurt or betrayal. “I care deeply for Logan’s well-being, and for Charles’ too. I simply reminded Logan what it means to be royalty; that acting on his feelings for Charles would only hurt them both in the end.”

“No, you preyed on the boy’s sense of duty and his unfailing loyalty to his King. But perhaps I’m wrong about the reason…perhaps you did it for revenge? For being forced to keep quiet, and help raise your husband’s bastard son?”

Charles freezes, Shaw’s words making his throat seize with shock and disbelief. He slowly withdraws behind the wall again and slumps onto the ground, pressing a hand against his mouth to quell the rising panic as the realization sets in. 

Logan is Jakob Lehnsherr’s son.

Logan is Erik’s _half-brother_.

And that means Logan is royal by blood, and technically the rightful Crown Prince of Genosha.

It can't be!

And yet...

Charles is _furious_ , the idea that Erik’s parents and his uncle have all conspired to keep this enormous secret from his two friends; that they would deprive Erik the right to know his own brother, and Logan his place in the line of succession. It’s a betrayal he can barely fathom from the people who are closest and dearest to them both, who are supposed to love Erik and Logan as much – no, so much _more_ \- than Charles.

“There is no revenge, Seb. You know I love that boy as my own…I promised his mother before she died that I would always look out for him.”

There is no answering reply for long moments, and Charles is ready to sneak another peek when Shaw finally says, strangely subdued. “The boys will not thank you, you and Lehnsherr, in the end. The truth will find its way out, eventually. And love…love cannot be denied.”

He does risk a look then, the rapidly changing tone in the King’s voice strangely intriguing. Charles shifts quietly onto his stomach until he can peer around the corner again, where he finds the two siblings facing each other and standing close, with Sebastian’s hands curled gently, if possessively, around Edie’s shoulders.

“No, you can’t deny love,” Edie agrees, her hand moving to cradle the King’s cheek, a gesture warm and intimate. “But you _can_ decide what to do about it. And everything I do, I do for love, Sebastian. Even if you don’t agree with it. Even if it hurts you.”

“Edie--”

“Hush,” she interrupts, pulling him into her arms and resting her head against his chest with a sigh. Sebastian wraps her close and leans into her embrace, burying his face in the Queen’s long chestnut hair. “I don’t want to fight. Not about this. Not again.”   

“Then come and stay with me,” the King counters, in a voice Charles would deem ‘pleading’ if it had been anyone but Sebastian Shaw’s. “You and Erik, come and stay with me in Aerie. I have missed you so…and Erik is growing up so fast. I hardly recognize him from one year to the next.”

“Oh Darling,” Edie answers with a sigh. “You know that my place is here, at my husband’s--”

He interrupts her with a kiss unexpected, just a light brush of his lips against the corner of her mouth, something so soft and gentle in the way Shaw touches her cheek and Edie smiles in response. But she is already pulling away before the King can say another word, squeezing his hand gently before taking a step back towards the tower door.

“I’ll see you at dinner, yes?” the Queen prompts, and then she turns away with a sweep of her gown, leaving her brother to stand alone by the parapet without a backwards glance. Sebastian watches her with an unreadable expression on his face, his body stiff and hands clenched as the door closes behind her with a thud.

The entire exchange between the two siblings leaves Charles burning with curiosity, with so much information gained that he can’t quite parse without history or context. He watches Shaw with rapt attention as the King turns to gaze out beyond the horizon once more, taking in the sharp angles of his face and the stubborn jut of his jaw.

What is he thinking right now? About the Queen? And Erik? Why does he keep the secret of Logan’s birthright if he doesn’t agree with the lies?

The King of Aerie is a fascinating enigma, one that calls to Charles across the wide open space. And suddenly, he comes up with the most ridiculous, dangerous, _insane_ idea.

Charles will try to read his mind, from afar.

He’s gotten much better over the years, practicing with Angel and his friends, working diligently to increase both his range and control. With Shaw standing just a few feet away, Charles is certain he can manage it, if only to get a glimpse of the man’s thoughts and whatever feelings are simmering just beneath the surface.

Charles closes his eyes, rests his fingers against his temple, and _reaches_.

There are fragments of the man’s memories, Edie’s laugh and the touch of her hand, the scent of jasmine perfume and a voice singing a sweet lullaby. There’s a baby in Sebastian’s arms, so tiny and pink, and Edie smiling as she says, “Isn’t he beautiful, brother? His name is Erik.” There’s the taste of a woman’s lips, soft and wet, and oh, there’s a face there, if she would just _turn_ so Charles can see--

And then Charles finds himself lurching back from Shaw’s mind with a shudder, crystalline walls slamming upwards to block his way, dislodging him hard enough to make him gasp.

“Ah, Your Highness,” the King calls out mildly, like he didn’t just catch Charles violating his privacy in the worst way, first by eavesdropping and then by attempting to read his mind. “Do come out won’t you, from whereever you're hiding? So we can have a chat face to face? It’s so much easier that way.”

Charles is mortified, and more than a little frightened at the repercussions of his actions; something that seemed like a harmless trick a few moments ago, now the potential for a political disaster all on his head.

He takes a deep breath, and stands…

…and finds himself looking right into the eyes of the King of Aerie.

“Your Majesty,” Charles murmurs, trying to infuse it with as much humility and diffidence as he can manage, straightening his tunic as the King takes a couple of easy steps towards his hiding place. He scrambles for a strategy to get out of this mess, quickly disregarding each in turn until he decides to simply apologize for his behavior, and appeal to the King’s fondness for Erik, hoping that he’ll be more lenient for the sake of Charles’ friendship with his nephew.

“Your Majesty,” he tries again, louder this time as he takes in Shaw’s expression, relaxed and possibly…amused? “I’m so sorry--”

“Your Gift…you are very powerful, young man,” Sebastian interrupts with a wave of his hand, as if to dismiss Charles’ attempts to apologize outright. “Powerful, but you lack discipline, and control. You were doing well until you tried to dig deeper…Have you received any formal training from another mind reader?”

Charles stammers, too bewildered by the direction of their conversation to remember that he’s supposed to be begging for forgiveness. “No, Sire. My mother, she does not…we know of no one else who has my particular Gift in Westchester, and none that could help me master it beyond what I discover on my own.”

“What nonsense,” Shaw dismisses airily, and even if Charles agrees he still feels a twinge of defensiveness over the subtle jab against his mother. “Your Gift is like any other skill you possess; you must work hard to make yourself better, more powerful. Train as you would with a sword and shield. As for your Gift…well I have met more than one mind reader in my years as King; my own General is the greatest of your kind. I am sure there are others, perhaps even in Westchester, should you bother to look for them.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he concurs, and watches the King’s face for any sign of anger, or an indication of his displeasure. Finding none, and being too curious to help himself, he continues, “Are you…you’re not angry?”

Shaw turns his sharp blue eyes on him then, and Charles struggles to meet the hawk-like gaze, unwilling to show the fear that’s thrumming through his veins. After a few moments, the King laughs and takes a few more steps until he’s standing right below the raised platform, and offers his hand to Charles.

“Should I be?” Sebastian counters, guiding him slowly down onto the main battlements, settling them both against the parapet, overlooking the beach. “I did not hear you come up behind us, which means that we inadvertently violated _your_ sanctuary. No doubt you meant to stay hidden, to avoid unnecessary questions from my lovely sister, and found yourself at a loss over what to do when we didn't leave. Am I correct?”

“Yes, but I overheard things I shouldn’t—” he starts, and then Charles almost bites his own tongue in his haste to shut his mouth, cheeks burning as the King stares at him again and starts to laugh.

“My dear boy, you heard nothing I wouldn’t say to Jakob Lehnsherr’s face.”

He makes the statement with such confidence – such _arrogance_ – that Charles has no doubt that Shaw means every word. But there is still the matter of Logan that troubles him immensely, and he will risk the King’s wrath now, if only to try and understand the situation better and help his friends.

“But, Your Majesty,” he tries, pitching his voice soft and low, a trick he’s watched his mother use to great effect in Court, pandering to the tendencies of alphas who indulge and underestimate omegas in power. “You said yourself, that you disagree with the decision to keep Logan’s paternity a secret. Surely, you can--”

Sebastian silences Charles with another wave of his hand. “It’s not my secret to tell. Nor is it yours, my boy. For all that I disagree with Edie and Lehnsherr…it’s _their_ decision to tell Erik or not. Do you understand?”

The warning is clear enough in words and in tone; the King might be willing to forgive Charles’ transgressions here today, but only if he keeps what he’s discovered a secret.

“Yes,” Charles hedges, but can’t help himself as he pushes, “but doesn’t Logan deserve to know the truth?”

Luckily, Shaw doesn’t seem offended or angered by his insistence, and reaches out to pat his shoulder. “If you’re worried about the injustice done to your friend, worry not. Young Howlett knows who his father is, and he’s perfectly content with things as they stand, or so Edie tells me.”

“But how can he be satisfied being the King’s Ward when he’s actually King Jakob’s son? When he should be the rightful Crown Prince of Genosha? And Erik; doesn’t Logan want to tell him the truth?”

Sebastian gives him a wry smile, and shakes his head. “He might have wanted all those things, if he didn’t have his opinion formed for him years ago; by Lehnsherr, by Edie, even by his mother from beyond the grave. Now, he cares only to please his King, and will deny his own happiness for loyalty, for a man who cares more for his kingdom than his own son.”

The accusation is harsh and damning, and Charles wonders at the animosity between Erik’s father and uncle; at the root cause for Sebastian Shaw’s distaste for the man his sister married. He has known King Jakob for many years now and has always found him to be fair and kind, and yet…what kind of man refuses to acknowledge his own child? What could possibly be more important than your own flesh and blood?

Charles comes out of his musings to find the King watching him closely, and returns the look with a genuine smile. Though he finds Sebastian Shaw as intimidating as ever, he is also refreshingly candid, unlike the nobles in his father’s Court. And though Charles is only thirteen, the King does not condescend to him as so many do, clearly aware of the nature of his Gift; that it allows him insight and understanding beyond his limited years.

“Will you tell the Queen that I was here?”  

Shaw laughs. “I hadn’t planned on it. Did you want me to?”

His cheeks heat with embarrassment anew, though it fades quickly with the King’s continued good humor. “I just thought…you and the Queen seem close. I didn’t think that you would want to keep a secret from her.”

“I love my sister very much, Charles,” Sebastian explains, following his next words with what could only be described as a sly wink. “But we do not share the same opinions on many matters. I don’t see any reason to tell her about our conversation today. Trust me…your secret is safe with me.”  
  


* * *

  
By the time Charles returns to his quarters it is hours past the noon meal, and his stomach is growling fiercely for some much needed sustenance. Luckily, Angel takes one look at him and hurries him into the receiving room, where a selection of breads and cheeses lay covered on the round table, next to a great flagon of goat’s milk. He relays the earlier events of the day to his nurse between bites, detailing his failed encounter with Logan and his meeting with the King of Aerie on the battlements.

He does _not_ tell Angel that he eavesdropped on the royal siblings, or anything about Logan’s parentage, loathe as he is to reveal any more than necessary of his un-princely behavior earlier in the day.

That, and the King’s parting words are still ringing in his ears.

_“Knowledge is power, my dear boy. Not just what you know, but what you choose to do with that knowledge.”_

Angel, for all her kind words and sympathetic looks, is hardly surprised by what transpired on the training grounds, though she does run her hand soothingly through Charles’ unruly curls. She had warned him more than once that Logan might refuse his advances, even if Charles himself had been so certain about Logan’s feelings.

“It’s not so bad, is it?” Angel asks, as she hands him a warm cloth to wipe the sweat and grime off his face. “His Highness is a fine young man, and your father seems to support a match. You and Erik are very close aren’t you? Perhaps as you both get older, your feelings for him will change.”

“Why does everyone think I have to marry Erik?” he snaps, too annoyed to soften the edge in his response. “Why does it have to be him? What if I don’t want him? What if he doesn’t want _me_? Am I to have nothing in my life that I can control? Must everything be dictated to me from now until the day that I die? What I wear? How I speak? Who I _love_? Can’t I make any decisions of my own?”

His words peter out to no more than a whisper when his mother appears unexpectedly, no doubt hearing most, if not all of Charles’ tirade. He scrambles to his feet and bows as etiquette requires, though for once, Sharon eschews the manners she so stringently enforces, and guides him to take a seat, taking his hand.

“You’re unhappy,” Mother says, her sharp eyes taking in Charles’ unkempt appearance from head to toe. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” Charles replies. He can hardly tell his mother about his feelings for one of his closest friends, especially if Logan’s royal blood continues to remain secret, unknown to all but a select few.

She watches him for a few moments as he tries not to fidget, and then lets out a long, suffering sigh. “You think I don’t understand how you feel? I remember being young too and so desperately in love, Charles. But for all that we live privileged lives, our duty is first to the people we rule. Your choices are not your own, and haven’t been since the day you were born into this world.”

“I know, Mother. I’m sorry.”

“If you’re concerned about being made to marry Erik Lehnsherr against your will, don’t be. I won’t allow it.”

Charles’ head snaps up at her words, and he shoots a quick glance at Angel who raises her eyebrows, apparently sharing in his confusion. “Really? Don’t you like Erik?”

Sharon smiles. “I like him just fine. Only, he’s not your only choice for a suitable mate, is he? You are the omega of prophecy, and heir to the greatest kingdom in Heven, Charles. There are many others who would make a better match. Prince Armando of Wakanda for one, who is heir to our largest trading partner in the South. Queen Moira of the Muir Isles, who controls the biggest merchant fleet in the Northern Seas. Even King Sebastian is a fine choice, my Darling. Aerie has the greatest army of the seven kingdoms, and Westchester would only benefit under his protection.”

“But Queen Moira is already in her late twenties! And King Sebastian is old enough to be my father!”

“What of it?” Mother replies, narrowing her eyes at Charles’ outburst. “What does age matter? Or love? You marry to build alliances, and to bear an heir to continue the line. Love is…hardly consequential, in the grand scheme of things.”

For the briefest of moments, Charles considers asking her directly, who she loved as a young girl in her homeland of Sakaar, and whether she bears anything more than affection now for the man she married. But Charles is a little afraid of what the answer could be, unwilling to hear that his father’s love might have gone unreciprocated – and unappreciated – after all these long years.

Instead he answers, “Yes, Mother,” which makes the Queen smile, gracing Charles with genuine approval now that he’s all but acquiesced to her point of view. He ignores a few more of her pointed remarks about his father’s indulgences, allowing Charles the weapons training ‘so unbefitting of his status as an omega, and heir to the throne’, and kisses her cheek dutifully when she stands, sweeping out of his quarters as quietly and elegantly as she arrived.

Charles rolls his eyes at Angel, and sighs. “I’m going to go take a bath now,” he quips. “Best if the ‘omega of prophecy’ doesn’t show up for dinner smelling like dirt, yes?”  
  


* * *

  
A bath turns out to be exactly what Charles needs, doing much to ease both the ache in his muscles as well as the blow to his bruised ego. He ends up falling asleep in the warmth of the jasmine scented water, and only wakes when Angel comes in to check on him almost an hour later, to help him get ready for the evening meal with the Lehnsherrs, his parents and Sebastian Shaw.

His clothes are laid out for him when he enters his chambers, a luxurious tunic and matching trousers in Xavier blue, the edges trimmed in silver thread, and his sapphire encrusted coronet set on a satin pillow on the bed. Nothing but the finest attire for a scion of the House of Xavier, and Charles wants nothing more than to throw it all out the window and straight into Hammer Bay.

“What’s wrong, Charles?” Angel asks, as she gently guides him into a chair by the fireplace, to wrestle a comb through his still wet hair. “Do you want another outfit? I can have the page bring another…the one in red and gold, perhaps? In the Lehnsherrs’ colors?”

“No, I don’t--” he starts, and then, “This is fine, Angel. It’s only that I hate being dressed like a pretty doll, to be stared at and scrutinized for every move I make. I thought being _here_ , in Genosha, it would be different, you know? That things wouldn’t be quite so…formal.”

He loves the roughhewn stone and rustic warmth of Lehnsherr Keep, so different from the austere beauty of Graymalkin back home. The Lehnsherrs seem to care little for age old traditions or placating stodgy nobles and courtiers, their dealings with Erik and Logan reflecting a much more carefree attitude to royal life than his own upbringing in Westchester. Charles envies the freedom afforded his friends in Genosha, and wishes for nothing more than to shed the trappings of royalty, eschewing the promise of a grand destiny for something much simpler.

“If you wish, I can tell the Queen that you’re ill and can’t make it to dinner,” Angel offers, and Charles sighs in relief, the tension in his shoulders easing at little at the thought of an evening alone to digest the events of the day. An evening without having to see Logan’s pity written all over his face.

“Thank you, Angel,” he replies, grateful for her support and quick thinking as always. “That’s exactly what I need.”  
  


* * *

  
Evening turns into morning, and then the afternoon of the following day, with Charles continuing to hide in his rooms, refusing visits from both Erik and Logan. His father and mother come separately to check on him over the course of the day, but leave him easily enough at his insistence for some quiet and much needed rest. Charles uses the time alone to read and to sketch a map of Lehnsherr Keep and its surroundings, and to write a long promised letter to Hank and Raven back home.

He is in bed, reading by candle light when the door creaks open, and Erik sticks his head inside the room, a smile blooming across his face when he spots Charles still awake.

“Erik! What are you doing here?” he hisses. “Are you mad? You’re not allowed in my quarters after dark!”

But Erik only laughs, and flops down on the bed on top of Charles, pinning his legs under the quilt. “Don’t worry, Angel knows I'm here. She let me in to see you. And she told me you weren’t really sick.”

“I’m feeling better _now_ ,” Charles insists, embarrassed at being caught in a lie by his friend, and too proud to admit he’s been hiding in his chambers all day. “So you can turn around and go back to bed.”

Erik frowns at being sent away like a petulant child, but then his lips curve into a grin and he starts tugging excitedly on Charles’ hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here. There’s something I haven’t shown you yet…you’ll like it, I promise."

“I can’t! It’s past the seventh bell, I can’t just go running off--”

“No one’s going to know! We’re not going far, and besides, everyone’s gone to bed! Come on, Charles; it’ll be fun!”

“Fine,” Charles snaps, though his heart is racing with excitement, anxious to get out of the Keep and see Erik’s surprise. “But if we get caught, I’m blaming you for dragging me outside.”

Erik grins at him, his smile wide and contagious. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of getting you into trouble.”  
  


* * *

  
It turns out that Erik’s surprise is nothing more exotic than a visit to the beach, though Charles concedes that the view is rather breathtaking under the clear night sky. They throw themselves on the warm sand side by side, their heads pressed close together as they stare up at the twinkling stars.

“Do you want to tell me what happened with Logan?” Erik asks after a few long moments, nothing but the surf crashing against the shore to break the companionable silence. Charles stiffens, and tries to think of a believable excuse, only for Erik to prop himself up on his elbow and glare down at him, lips curling into a frown. “And don’t try and tell me that nothing happened, alright? Ever since your sparring session yesterday, you’ve been hiding in your rooms. And Logan’s been stomping around like an angry bear, driving his recruits to tears during their training sessions.”

Charles laughs. “That does sound like Logan.”

“And now you’re trying to change the subject,” Erik admonishes, before he lets out a sigh and lays back down at Charles’ side. “Look, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but whatever happened, Logan feels pretty bad about it. You should forgive him.”

“Nothing happened--”

“Charles--”

“No, I mean, nothing _bad_ happened, alright? I just…lost my temper and took it out on Logan. And I should probably apologize but I’m just, I don’t know…”

He can hear the grin in Erik’s voice as he teases, “You’re a spoiled brat and you’re too proud to admit it when you’re wrong?”

“Shut _up_!” Charles orders, giggling as Erik pokes him in the ribs with his elbow. “I’m not a _brat_!”

“Okay,” Erik concedes, “but you _are_ conspiring with Logan and keeping secrets from me. Your _best friend_.”

Immediately Charles’ mind jumps back to the conversation he overheard the day before, his guilty conscience warring with his common sense. While it’s true that the issue of Logan’s parentage is not his to share, he is loath to have such a huge secret dangling like a sword at their throats, the three of them having sworn an oath of friendship years ago to care and protect one another always.

“Erik,” Charles replies, “we would never…you know Logan loves you, don’t you? That you’re his family?”

“Sure I do. And I love him too,” Erik says. “He’s my brother, just like you. Why?”

The words are on the tip of tongue, the urge to blurt out the truth almost overwhelming. Instead he closes his eyes and wraps his arms around Erik, clenching his teeth when Erik immediately hugs him back.

“No reason,” Charles lies, “I was just thinking about the three of us, and what we said we're going to do when I’m old enough to travel. Do you remember?”  

“Of course I remember,” Erik answers, his fondness and amusement wrapping around Charles like a warm and familiar cloak. “We’re going to take you on an adventure of a lifetime. Sail the vast oceans beyond Heven and go hunting for dragons.”

“Yeah,” Charles says with a wistful sigh. “Just the three of us.”

“Just the three of us,” Erik agrees, “’cause that’s all we’ll ever need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another time jump coming in the next chapter, along with a long expected engagement for Charles!


	6. Omega of Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles turns fifteen, and must select an alpha mate from amongst his royal suitors. And Cain Marko makes a lasting impression. 
> 
> **See chapter warnings below**

**_Year 194, Age of Storms  
_** **_Graymalkin Castle, Westchester_ **

_With the Prince’s coming of age in his fifteenth year, the world awaited the announcement of his engagement, long expected to Prince Erik Lehnsherr of Genosha. Instead, a missive was sent by King Brian at his Queen’s behest to all the kingdoms of Heven, announcing a week of festivities to be held in their son’s honor, where he would choose an alpha mate from amongst all the royalty in attendance._

_Still reeling from the untimely death of his father the year before, the announcement struck a blow to the grieving Prince Erik, who had hoped to ascend the throne on his eighteenth birthday with his childhood friend at his side. But with Queen Edie’s stalwart support, and the encouragement of the King’s Ward, James Howlett, he was determined to thwart all other eligible suitors, and win Prince Charles’ hand…  
_  

* * *

  
In his dreams, it’s always the same.

In his dreams, he doesn’t let go; he clings to the warmth of Charles’ body and the taste of his lips, and presses in close, one hand sliding to cradle his waist as they slip down onto the soft, green grass. He strokes his thumbs tenderly across an exposed collar bone, and dots kisses on each freckle as Charles squirms and laughs.

He touches – oh, how he longs to _touch_ – every bit of skin he can reach with hands and lips, burning him to his core. Charles keens with every teasing nip and every worshipful kiss, and moans with every slow, aching grind. Shudders with every stroke of a steady hand, arching as he topples over the edge with a cry; a name - _his_ name - falling from those precious, perfect lips.

_Logan._   
  


* * *

  
In the many years since their first visit – to both the kingdom and the capital city where the Xaviers reside – Logan has become quite familiar with the land of Westchester and its people. The warm, temperate climate and fertile green earth, gentle rolling hills and abundant harvests make the land rich and bountiful, and their people prosperous from farming and trade. Much of the kingdom’s wealth come from its exports of grains and olive oil to the lands immediately around Westchester – to the Muir Isles north across the Strait of Hope, to the deserts and jungles of Wakanda to the south, and the mountainous, ore rich lands of Genosha and Aerie to the east. And though Sakaar and Attilan are further afield, trade routes through land and sea have all but guaranteed Westchester’s place as Heven’s economic and political heart.

As the Xaviers’ sole heir, and a child of prophecy, Logan had always been aware of Charles’ importance to both his kingdom and his people. He understood, perhaps better than most the twists of fate and the cold hand of destiny, and never questioned his decision to reject Charles’ affections; that Logan was never meant for great things, and certainly not worthy of someone as brilliant and perfect as Charles.

But oh, how he _yearned_ for it.

Sometimes, in the dark of night as he lay in bed he imagined different scenarios in his head; of Charles disregarding both his parents’ objections and Logan’s reticence, and renouncing the throne for a life of travel and adventure at his side. Or his insistence that he would happily take a commoner like Logan to be his alpha Consort, overthrowing centuries of Westchester pomp and tradition.

And only rarely, at his most desperate did he dare to dream of what he swore to forsake, of Jakob acknowledging him as son and heir to the throne of Genosha, so that he too could make a bid for Charles’ hand.

Alas even that dream comes to a tragic and bitter end with the sudden death of the King, from an unknown illness of the heart that takes him without warning, sending Erik into a tailspin and the entire kingdom into mourning. Now more than ever his brother needs Logan’s support and unwavering loyalty; there can be no risk to Erik’s claim to the throne, and no taint to their father’s legacy.

Logan will make sure of it.

It’s easier too, now that months have turned into years, of Charles slowly growing into his role as heir and future king. Of Charles becoming less resentful and more accepting, learning to bear the weight of a kingdom’s expectations on his shoulders as easily as a well-worn cloak.

Of Charles outgrowing his childhood crush on Logan, even as Logan’s own feelings deepen with the change of the seasons, with every letter that arrives from Westchester written in that elegant and familiar hand.

“You’re making that face again,” Raven teases, interrupting his thoughts as she sheathes her sword and comes to stand beside him, leaving Hank to continue practicing on his own against the wooden pells. Unlike Raven and Charles, Hank does not take naturally to combat, his scholarly leanings and healer’s instincts making him much more suited to the company of dusty tomes and medicinal herbs. But Hank has ever been eager to please the cousin he so admires, and Raven too who has made clear the type of omega she will one day marry; someone like her adoptive brother Charles – who will be brilliant on _and_ off the battlefield.

Logan ignores the remark, eyes tracking the sparring session between Charles and Steven Rogers, the young Duke of Attilan. They are practicing their hand to hand skills at the moment, deciding to forego conventional weapons to even the playing field. Though the Duke is three years older, the two are not so different in weight and height, with Charles by far the more accomplished fighter.

“You should bed him once, before the tournament, and before he has to choose a mate,” she says blithely, as though she were simply suggesting a stroll through the rose garden, instead of sex with a virgin Charles – scandalous considering their stations and the fact that her brother will be engaged by the end of the festivities. He bites back a scathing retort at her callousness, only for his silence to be taken as permission to carry on. “Don’t look at me like that, Logan. _He_ wants to; _you_ want to. You should do it before he’s beyond your reach for good.”

“I don’t understand how you can say such a thing, Raven. Charles is--”

“Not innocent to the ways of alpha and omega, nor is he a child. If he’s old enough to select a mate, he’s certainly old enough to bed someone.”

Logan shakes his head. “You shouldn’t joke about such a thing.”

“And you shouldn’t dismiss my words so readily,” Raven chides, looking suitably unimpressed. “You’ve been in love with him for years. Would you deny yourself a bit of happiness? Fleeting though it may be?”

He swallows the sudden lump in his throat, studiously ignoring the way Raven is staring at him. “It wouldn’t be right. And it wouldn’t be fair to Erik.”

She rolls her eyes. “When are you going to stop being such a martyr? Erik will get to spend the rest of his life with Charles. Don’t you think you deserve a little happiness too?”

“It’s not about—” he starts to argue, only to be interrupted by the arrival of an unexpected and decidedly unwelcome guest. They are well away from the proper training grounds where the alpha suitors are all practicing hard for the tournament; though winning is not a condition to Charles’ ultimate choice it is nevertheless an opportunity to showcase their martial prowess, and a chance to impress the royal family of Westchester.

No matter that the choice has already been made by Charles, even if Queen Sharon insists on following through with the formalities of a royal courting open to all.

Raven narrows her eyes at the figure speaking to her brother and Duke Steven. “What does he want now? He can’t possibly think Charles would ever marry him! He’d sooner marry a _toad_ than Cain Marko! Ugh.”

Logan consciously unclenches his fists as Marko circles Charles like a hungry wolf, ignoring the Duke and seemingly unconcerned with the displeasure radiating off of Charles’ entire body. “Well whatever it is,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at the unfolding scene, “I’m sure it won’t end well.”  
  


* * *

  
“Oomph,” Steven grunts, as Charles grabs his bicep and flips him over his shoulder, dropping him onto the soft dirt with a resounding thud. “Ow. Oh, wow, I think something’s broken.”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, are you alright?”

He hadn’t intended to throw the Duke quite so hard, given the man’s long history of illness and his frail physique, but Steven had all but insisted that Charles treat him as he would any other opponent. It’s a sentiment that Charles understands completely, used to being handled like glass by the few Westchester knights willing to spar with him. He never understood the point of holding back on the training field; your enemies after all, were hardly going to go easy on you in the heat of battle.

Of course, the Duke probably hadn’t expected to walk away today with a broken bone.

But before he can try and assess the damage, Steven is already pushing himself up, half chuckling, half wheezing as he gives Charles a teasing grin.

“I’m fine. I was just kidding. Consider it payback for giving me such a sound thrashing.”

Charles rolls his eyes and groans theatrically. “Ugh,” he says, shoving Steven playfully with a sharp elbow. “You’re getting as bad as your soon to be brother-in-law. And here I thought Virginia would keep the two of you honest, and out of trouble.”

Steven shakes his head, brushing most of the dirt off his trousers before grabbing his water skin off the ground for a much needed drink. “She has her hands full enough with Anthony, as you well know. And the two have been rather busy planning their wedding. There seems to be a million decisions to make before next spring…otherwise he would have been here for moral support.”

“Oh?” Charles teases. “Is that moral support for me? Or for you?”

“For me of course,” Steven replies good-naturedly, settling down onto the grass next to the sparring ring. “We all know that you’ve got your heart set on marrying a certain Genoshan Prince. That’s not to say I haven’t been enjoying my visit…I mean, the company could be kinder but the food’s been _great_.”

“I don’t think I threw you hard enough just now, we definitely need to try--”

“Ah, so this is where you’ve been hiding.”

Charles grimaces; the strident voice interrupting them belongs to Cain, the only son of his father’s closest friend, Kurt Marko of Sakaar. Theirs has been a fractious association from the start, with Cain’s interest in Charles morphing over the years from mocking disdain to an unhealthy - and unwelcome - infatuation.

“I haven’t been hiding. The Duke and I are practicing,” Charles replies tersely, not willing to spare good manners for someone as irritating and smug as Cain Marko. “Aren’t you supposed to be training with the others for the tournament? Why are you here?”

“Why would I need to train when I already know I can beat them?” Cain says as he circles Charles slowly, eyes obviously, and _rudely_ , raking up and down every inch of his body. “And you’re wasting your time with Rogers. He can’t even beat _you_ in a fight, how well do you think he’s going to do against any of _us_? He’s an embarrassment to Attilan and to his King…the only reason he’s been invited is because his alpha sister is breeding Stark.”

Charles’ temper flares at the mocking words. “How _dare_ you--”

“Charles,” Steven interjects as he comes to stand at his side, placing a gentle hand on his back before turning his sharp blue eyes on Cain. “I can’t beat the Prince because he happens to be the far better fighter. In fact he’s better than most, if not _all_ of his suitors,” he says pointedly. “And my sister Virginia does not share your antiquated views about omegas, Prince Cain; she would hardly consider the _King of Attilan_ a brood mare, as you so crudely suggested.”

Cain’s response to Steven’s reprimand is to take a step closer, using his sizable bulk to loom over them menacingly, an ugly snarl blooming across his face. “I would watch that mouth of yours, _Duke_ of Attilan, unless you want to be taught a lesson about minding your betters--”

“Everything all right here?”

The sound of Logan’s voice cuts straight through Cain’s bluster, the thread of warning clear as he and Raven seem to appear out of thin air, flanking Charles and Steven on either side. It’s enough veiled hostility to give Cain pause for just a moment, only for the man to rally quickly with a snide laugh.

“Oh look who’s here,” Marko says with a sneer, “the Lehnsherrs’ guard dog and your father’s bit of charity. I never could understand your fondness for these _commoners_. Your time is better spent with someone of your own station. Someone who knows the appropriate way to treat an omega.”

Charles narrows his eyes. “You mean someone like _you_.”

Cain grins, the hateful rhetoric marring what could have been a handsome face. “Someone like me.”

“By ‘appropriate’ I’m sure you mean locked in your bedchambers for breeding, and never be allowed to pick up a weapon, or a book, or make any decisions of their own. This is not Sakaar, Prince Cain; your views are not shared nor are they welcomed here. And if you ever speak that way about my _sister_ , a Princess of Westchester, or my best friend again I will have you banned from setting foot in Graymalkin Castle for the rest of your days.”

Charles has never been more furious in his entire life, to have to stand there and listen to Cain insult the people he holds closest and dearest to his heart. Raven in particular, has had to deal with the deaths of her parents not so long ago, and the scandalized whispers from their own Court when Brian announced – at Charles’ urging – that he would adopt her as his own. He knows well that she has the strength and temerity to handle any slights against her, though it sits ill with him to see her disrespected so.

For a moment, Cain’s sour expression shifts, as though he recognizes the line he’s crossed with Charles and is regretting his hasty words. But then Raven, bless her, starts to laugh, and Cain’s face hardens even as it turns the deepest shade of red.

“You are not promised yet, _omega of prophecy_ ,” Cain spits, his hands clenching and unclenching at this sides. “Don’t forget that your own mother hails from Sakaar, and that our fathers share a decades old friendship. Your engagement to Lehnsherr is far from ensured; you would do well to remember that I might yet be your mate.”

Anger, overwhelming and visceral, pour from each of his companions at Cain’s unsubtle threat, though Charles himself refuses to rise to the bait. “You are the last alpha in Heven I would ever marry,” he replies, “I would sooner wed Sebastian Shaw, decades my senior than the likes of you. My parents would never force a match I didn’t approve, and I hardly care to marry an alpha that couldn’t best me in combat.”

“Charles--,” Logan interrupts; no doubt he’s wise to Charles’ plan already, and is keen to stop him.

_Let me handle this, Logan. You know I can win._

“Are you suggesting that _you_ could beat _me_? In a fight?” Cain asks, incredulous, completely ignoring the uncertain looks from Charles’ companions. They are all staring, Hank included as he joins them near the sparring ring, willing Charles without words to just send Marko away. “Is that a challenge?”

“It is,” he answers, confident that he can use Cain’s quick temper against him. “If I win, you will end your courtship immediately and withdraw your proposal of marriage. And you will apologize to my sister and my friends for your unseemly behavior.”

“And if I win?”

Charles shrugs. “Then you win. And you may continue your courtship, futile as it may be. I have no desire to marry you, and my parents have no great need to secure a match with Sakaar. You will only have your pride for comfort, though I’m sure that’s prize enough for someone like you.”

It’s a gamble, Charles knows, one that Cain would be stupid to make, even for a chance to humiliate him. Losing to Charles would be bruising enough, let alone the embarrassment of having to explain to Kurt why he’s ending the courtship prematurely, and risking censure from the House of Xavier. For all that Cain is impulsive he is also cunning; already Charles can read his intent to say no, having weighed the benefit against the reward and found it wanting.

Then again, he can always count on Raven’s sharp tongue to push things in the right direction.

“Better not, I think, than risk being known as the alpha who got trounced by an omega half his size,” Raven taunts, and just like that Cain’s thoughts color with indignant rage, pushing whatever good judgement he might have had straight out of his head. “I’m sure if you ask nicely, we won’t tell everyone that you’re too much of a coward to fight Charles.”

“I am not a _coward_!” Cain sputters, veins bulging from his neck as he tries – and fails – to reign in his temper.  
  
“Good, then you accept? We can fight right here, right now.”

“Charles,” Logan says again, moving to put himself squarely in the space between Charles and Cain, cutting Marko from view. “You don’t need to do this. You have nothing to prove.”

Cain snorts derisively, and strides into the center of the ring. “What’s wrong, Howlett? Afraid your star pupil can’t handle a real fight?”

But Logan ignores Marko’s gibe, his attention focused completely on Charles. He frowns when Charles sends him a wave of reassurance and intent, and then slowly backs away to stand beside the others on the edge of the grass.

_If you’re going to do this, then do it like I taught you. Hit him hard and take him down fast. Stay out of his reach._

_I know. I will._

_And_ don’t _underestimate him, Charles, not for a second._

_Trust me. I know what I’m doing._

Charles grins and tosses a wink over his shoulder at his friends, before joining Cain in the center of the ring. He unsheathes his daggers and starts twirling them slowly, around and around, priming himself for battle. Perfectly weighted and sculpted just for Charles, the set was a fourteenth birthday gift from Erik, crafted by his own hands. It’s a little like having Erik with him, he thinks; hopefully, he won’t be too disappointed to have missed this confrontation, anxious as he is to best Marko himself.

Now that his opponent has agreed to Charles’ deal, he seems calmer, standing there eyeing him with a sly smirk. He knows that Cain is expecting this to be easy; thinks that Logan’s lessons have been nothing more than an excuse to pander to Charles’ vanity these past few years.

He’s looking forward to changing the misconception.

“Are you sure you want to duel with live steel?” Cain asks, and oh how Charles wants to slap that smug look off his face. “I would hate to see you accidentally cut yourself with those little knives of yours.”

Charles glares at him with utter disdain, a mockery of a smile that would make his mother proud. “My little knives suit me just fine. _I_ have no need to compensate for any shortcomings with the size of my _sword_.”

If looks could kill, then Charles would certainly have been dealt a deathblow; it’s says something about his own enmity towards Cain that it thrills rather than troubles him to get so thoroughly under the man’s skin. Unfortunately, it lasts no more than a moment, and then Cain is unhooking his scabbard and dropping his blade to the ground, moving to pull a wooden sword from the rack to use as his weapon.

“I agree, not everyone can handle the size of my _sword,”_ Cain retorts, grinning wickedly as Charles rolls his eyes. “I’ll go easy on you, little princeling.”

“As you wish,” he replies, and then he’s moving fast, darting forward and striking out with his daggers, a move that Cain barely has time to block before Charles spins and kicks him square in the chest, slamming him backwards with a grunt. It isn’t enough to knock him over, but it does manage to surprise him, giving Charles an opening for his next strike, a quick and shallow cut that slashes a gaping hole in Marko’s tunic right across his chest.

Charles smiles and bats his eyelashes. “Oops.”

But the minor victory is short-lived, as Cain straightens himself and stares intently at Charles, face unreadable. He is clearly reassessing his opponent and changing his strategy, and when he swings his sword again it is decidedly more measured and controlled, heavy strokes coming down in wide, graceful arcs that Charles barely dodges.

Their duel slowly builds in speed and intensity, every blow meant to hit their mark, for all that they know better than to wound the other – or gods forbid – draw blood. Cain has yet to land a direct hit, unable to get close enough as Charles parries and spins, taunting him with lightning fast reflexes that do nothing but frustrate and stymie. He knows he just has to tire Cain enough to make him lose his concentration, and then Charles can sweep in and knock him down, and disarm him with a quick hit—

—only Charles is suddenly landing hard on his back, winded and a little dazed, as Cain catches him around the waist and tackles him onto the ground. Cain lets out a roar of triumph, believing he’s won the fight, already grinning from ear to ear as he makes a grab for Charles’ wrists. Ignoring the shouts from the others watching, Charles tries to roll out from under Marko’s bulk, using his opponent’s distraction against him, squirming and bucking—

— _and moaning as Cain presses down between his legs, panting harshly against his ear as he bites and sucks bruises on Charles’ neck. He can’t move, or breathe; Cain is covering his whole body and boxing him in, hands tearing at his tunic, his trousers, yanking them down and spreading him open, pushing in,_ taking _him, fucking him right there on the dirt, in front of his friends, an omega whore like his mother_ —

And then Charles is screaming, his body shaking with adrenaline as he stares down at Cain, unconscious and slumped over on the ground. Logan is crouched beside him and holding him upright, hands on his shoulders, soothing him with words he doesn’t understand while Raven, Hank and Steven are gathered around them both, looking on with various degrees of concern and shock.

“Are you in pain?” Hank asks, no doubt ready to plaster all manner of herbs and pastes on Charles to mend any hurts. “Charles, can you hear me?”

“I’m fine,” he manages, after a few moments, taking a long drink from the water skin that Raven hands him without a word. Embarrassment is slowly taking root as the realization hits him; Cain had inadvertently dragged Charles into his mind as they struggled, and he’d lost himself in the fantasies, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of Marko’s unbridled lust. “I just need a few minutes alone. Please.”

 _Please_ he sends just to Raven, knowing that she’ll respect his wishes, and ensure that the others give Charles the space he needs. They are reluctant to leave him, and Steven murmurs words of apology – for not trying to stop the fight, and not taking Cain on himself – which Charles waves away easily; he does not want anyone fighting his battles for him, something the Duke had known and respected.

But Charles doesn’t try to send Logan away, knowing that it would be futile, and wanting to take comfort in his steady, familiar presence. Once they’re alone, he allows Logan to help him off the ground and out of the ring, and well away from Cain’s still unmoving body.

“Does he need a healer?” Logan asks, voice gruff with anger that Charles knows isn’t directed at him. More likely, he’s mad at _himself_ for not stopping the duel or stepping in sooner, even knowing full well that Charles was the one at fault.

“He’s not physically injured. I think I just knocked him out cold with my Gift, that’s all,” Charles replies, letting Logan take his hand and pull him close, wrapping both arms around him. “I’m sorry. I got overconfident and I underestimated him…you were right, I should have been paying more attention.”

“What happened?” Logan murmurs, his arms tightening around Charles, like he’s afraid of letting go. “Something did, I know it did. Tell me, please.”

“I don’t—” Charles sighs. “When he grabbed me, he was thinking about what he wanted…what he wanted to _do_ to me, right there on the dirt, in front of all of you. You know that touch enhances my Gift…it overwhelmed me, that’s all.”

Logan growls, “I’m going to gut him, the disgusting pig.”

He chuckles softly, and pulls away slightly to cup Logan’s face between his hands. “He’s hardly the first alpha to have such thoughts about me. It was just unexpected, and grossly, appallingly crude, yes. But I’m alright, I promise. And it’s a lesson learned, not to underestimate your opponent no matter the circumstances.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with it, any of it,” Logan insists, tugging Charles close again, and placing a feather light kiss against his forehead. “Tell me who else has these improper thoughts about you. I’ll make sure they don’t bother you again. That they stay far, far away.”

_You can’t protect me from everything._

_I can sure as hell try._

_I know,_ Charles agrees, _I’m sure once Erik hears about this he’ll want to join you on the warpath._

At the mention of Erik, Logan immediately stiffens, and then slowly peels himself away from Charles’ embrace. “You should probably go find him,” he says, expression suddenly closed and frustratingly distant. “Go on, I’ll keep an eye on Marko.”

“Logan--”

But his friend is already turning and walking away, leaving Charles to stand alone, bereft of much needed comfort. He wonders if this is how it will always be between them, now and evermore; if their friendship can bear the weight of what they feel for each other, unspoken and impossible.

Charles makes his way back towards the castle, feeling wretched and heartsick, having lost not one, but two important battles this day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings:** Noncon imagery when Charles accidentally reads Cain's mind.
> 
> Note: I promise we'll get LOTS of Erik in the next chapter!


	7. Promises Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik have a heart to heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An entire chapter from Erik's POV! And some happy, fluffy goodness for Charles and Erik before...stuff happens lol.

The air is already filled with the clanging of swords and ringing of metal by the time Erik arrives mid-morning to the training grounds. It is the day before the tournament honoring Charles’ coming of age, the last of the official festivities to take place before the Xaviers announce their decision at the celebratory feast. The anticipation is palpable as all around them the castle’s servants bustle to and fro, some arranging soft cushions on the seats for spectators while others drape silver and blue banners and heraldry across the wooden stands.

The chatter stops momentarily when Erik – with Alex at his back – steps into the enclosure, curious eyes tracking them across the sand to the weapons rack. It’s been the same for most of the past week; wherever Erik goes he finds himself the object of scrutiny and intense speculation, gossip swirling around his previous status as the expected mate of choice for the omega of prophecy. But with the onset of open courting – instead of an engagement announcement to Erik – rumors began to swirl about the reason for the Xaviers’ actions; everything from the Lehnsherrs falling out of favor with King Brian and Queen Sharon, to the Queen’s interest in securing stronger ties with her homeland of Sakaar. There were even whispers about Erik perhaps not being a Lehnsherr by blood; that Jakob had died of a broken heart due to the shocking discovery.

If Erik ever finds the person who started _that_ particular rumor, he’ll exact retribution – happily and unreservedly – for the grave insult to his parents.

That the answer is much simpler and more obvious seems to make no difference to the gossipmongers; it is after all, more interesting to whisper about scandalous affairs than simple political maneuvering. Erik has little doubt that Sharon loves Charles in her own way, though she has never been one to be outwardly affectionate. Yet he has come to understand, with Edie’s tutoring, that Sharon’s reasons for the festivities are twofold; to promote goodwill with all the other kingdoms of Heven, and to assert the importance of Westchester and the desirability of Charles as a mate, as befitting his reputation as the omega of prophecy.

His uncle says much the same thing, when Erik asks – a little peevishly – why he intends to court Charles, who is decades his junior. Sebastian laughs and wraps an arm good-naturedly around his shoulders, assuring Erik of his complete disinterest in securing Charles’ hand in marriage. But he is the King, his uncle explains, with no son or daughter to offer in his place, and so he must attend the festivities and represent Aerie’s interest in these matters, to show his support for the Xaviers and honor Charles’ birthright.

Queen Moira too, Erik learns later, through the same rumor mill that floats throughout the proceedings, is largely happy to rule on her own, and not in a terrible hurry to acquire a spouse or heirs for the Muir Isles. She is content to join in the festivities and drink and make merry, her suit for Charles’ hand known and accepted by most as largely for show.

That leaves only four suitors in total, including Erik, who are truly invested in the outcome of the celebrations. Prince Armando, he finds to be friendly and affable, and perfectly content to let the gods – and Charles – dictate the results of a possible union between Westchester and Wakanda. Duke Steven of Attilan too, Erik considers a warm acquaintance if not quite a friend; his quick wit and sense of humor, and instant connection with Charles would be a cause for concern if not for the certainty in Erik’s heart.

The belief that he and Charles are meant to spend their lives together, and that nothing can truly keep them apart.

Certainly not _Cain Marko_ , even if he knows that the man will make every attempt to thwart them, still vainly hopeful that his father can convince King Brian to cement Westchester’s alliance with Sakaar, to satisfy his own obsession with the young Xavier heir.

The unwanted attention eventually wanes as Erik ignores the small groups spread throughout the training grounds – mostly Westchester nobles and visiting knights practicing for the tournament – helped along by the scowl that Alex sends to anyone who catches his eye. They sort through the various swords, axes, maces and polearms on display, with Erik lamenting the need to relinquish his own sword for the duration of the tournament. To ensure fairness – and likely at the behest of Kurt Marko on his son’s behalf – King Brian had chosen to ban all personal armaments as well as Gifts from use, with all weapons to be provided by the Westchester armory. His uncle had immediately balked at the restriction, and not so graciously declined to participate; a small relief for Erik who could not hope to best Sebastian Shaw in a one on one duel. Even _with_ his control over metal he is no match for his uncle’s years of experience on the battlefield, not to mention the man’s ability to absorb and reflect blows taken during a fight.

“Ah, Your Highness,” Prince Armando greets, clasping his arm with Erik’s in a show of camaraderie. “Nice of you to finally show up! So certain of your chances are you? That you’d forgo training for a couple of extra hours of sleep?”

“He could fall on his face in front of all the royals of the Seven Kingdoms and still have Charles cheering him on,” Sean Cassidy adds, joining Armando at Erik’s side. The youngest son of a minor noble family in the Westchester Court, Erik has only met Sean – a Gifted omega around Charles’ age – on a handful of occasions. “I do think that your fighting skills will be wasted on our Crown Prince, Armando.”

“Funny, and yet probably true,” Erik replies, directing his words to the others with a smile. “But no, not sleep, though I can’t say it wouldn’t have been appreciated. I took the morning meal with my mother and uncle actually, and then read over the latest reports from home.”

“More complaints from the Vikaars about Genoshan settlers encroaching on their land, and more pleas to lessen their tributes,” Alex grouses, pulling one of the swords from the rack and testing the weight in his hand. “It’s the same thing year after year. How their old Chieftain doesn’t get tired of writing the exact same missive every few months, I’ll never know.”

Armando chuckles. “It’s like that in Wakanda too I’m afraid. It’s always the same issues and the same complaints…though excitement is not always a good thing when it comes to running a kingdom.”

“No indeed,” Erik agrees, taking the sword Alex offers him with a grin. “Especially if said excitement is in the form of a secret elopement between one of your betrothed nobles with someone _not_ his intended.”

Alex groans, and hides his face with his hands. “Oh gods, Scott the stupid bastard! I still can’t believe he did that.”

Enough time has passed now that they can joke about it, but the broken engagement between Scott Summers of Genosha and Emma Frost of Aerie was a political disaster Erik hadn’t been equipped to handle, mere months after Jakob’s death. There had been no indication by Scott that he was unhappy with his engagement to Aerie’s General, and the news that he had eloped with Lady Jean of the House of Grey rocked both the Summers family and the entirety of the Genoshan Court.

And Emma Frost had certainly not taken kindly to the news.

If not for the intervention of his uncle on Erik and his mother’s behalf, he’s not sure _what_ Frost would have demanded as restitution, for such a grievous insult paid to the woman in Aerie’s highest office.

“Scott owes a debt of gratitude to my uncle, you know,” Erik teases, patting a pained Alex on the back. “He should consider naming his baby after him.”

“Ugh don’t remind me! Sleeping with Jean Grey while he’s still engaged to Frost? Eloping because he got himself pregnant? I swear if he wasn’t my brother I would’ve--”

But Erik is no longer listening to Alex’s rant, as he spots Raven and Hank approaching quickly from the distance, with Duke Steven in tow. Raven’s face is grim and Hank looks worried, and Erik is already striding out to meet them, anxious to know the whereabouts of their missing companions.

“What happened,” he barks, his concern overwhelming his good manners. That none of them react to his harsh tone does not bode well for an innocuous explanation.

Raven snorts. “Cain Marko happened. He came looking for trouble and found Charles.”

Erik crosses his arms and grits his teeth, doing his best to rein in his rising temper. If Cain Marko did anything to hurt Charles, anything at all…

“Tell me,” he growls, as Alex and the others catch up and fall in beside him. “Tell me _everything_.”  
  


* * *

  
Erik finds Charles sitting alone in his favorite spot, in the little clearing where they first met as children, seven years and a lifetime ago.

Sitting with his arms around his legs and his chin pressed to his knees, Charles seems so much younger than fifteen, like the lonely child he used to be, so eager to make friends. His eyes are unfocused and his expression wistful, gaze tracking the river’s swirls and eddies as his mind drifts from the confines of Graymalkin Castle. They’ve spent many warm and lazy days here, laughing and swapping tales of magic and mayhem, charting a course for their imaginary journey to unknown lands North of the Chering Sea. It is an idyllic hideaway, with sun warmed grass and the water’s quiet babble; a sanctuary for the Prince of Westchester, and those he holds close.

Charles doesn’t stir, or turn his head as Erik approaches, though he does curl their fingers together when Erik offers his hand. It’s difficult, not reaching to wrap his arms around Charles and tug him close, or boldly promise to make things better.

Though knowing Charles, whatever’s plaguing him is undoubtedly complicated, _and_ difficult to fix.

“A silver for your thoughts,” he offers, taking a seat next to Charles on the river bank, shoulder to shoulder. He squeezes the hand he grips ever so lightly, a familiar comfort between old friends.

“I should think my thoughts are worth more than a mere silver,” Charles teases, his answering smile soft if a touch rueful. “You’re the Crown Prince of Genosha. Surely you can afford a ruby, or a sapphire.”

“Ah, but we’re only a tiny kingdom of miners and craftsmen. You will have to speak to my uncle if you wish for pretty jewels.”

“Hmm.”

He glances over, taking in Charles’ profile in the mid-afternoon light – to the pink flush of his skin and the splash of freckles dotting his nose. Erik has to tamp down the urge to trace them with fingers and lips, a stray thought that Charles no doubt catches, if the sly smile blooming across his face is any indication.

“I spoke with Raven,” Erik says, and the smile quickly morphs into a frown, one that he’s anxious to chase away. “Are you alright?”

Charles sighs. “I am…though I’d rather not talk about it. I promise, I’ll tell you everything later. I’m not hurt, I just…don’t want to think about Cain anymore. Not here. Not now.”

 “Alright, no Cain,” he agrees readily, “but I know something else has been bothering you these past few days. Won’t you tell me? I would listen to your burdens, Charles, and help if I can.”

For long moments, Charles says nothing, and Erik resists the urge to push him; it hasn’t been the easiest of lessons for Erik to learn, to be patient with someone so unlike himself, someone who doesn’t wear his emotions openly for the world to see. And Charles always reveals himself eventually, though only when he’s ready, and always on his terms.

“Did you know that I asked my father, and Chancellor Essex why I needed to be engaged at fifteen and married by eighteen? That surely my ability to carry out the duties of Crown Prince had nothing to do with the finding and keeping of an alpha mate?”

“And? What did they say?”

Charles scoffs. “The _Chancellor_ explained, that it has always been this way for omega heirs to the throne, since the founding of our kingdom by Charles I. That even though Westchester’s views on omega rulers have changed these past centuries, that we must still follow our traditions and honor our past.”

Erik snickers; he doesn’t need to have Charles’ Gift to see the Chancellor’s snide delivery plainly in his mind, a rudely imperious man with a penchant for overblown speech. “Please. Do tell me what you said to him.”

“I told him that my first act as King would be to change those outdated traditions,” Charles answers, a devilish glint in his eye. “And to get rid of anyone in Court who tried to stop me.”

He laughs as Charles shares with him a memory of the Chancellor’s face, stuck between enraged and horrified as King Brian tries and fails to hide his amusement.

“But surely you could have spoken to your father about your misgivings? Why did he agree to all of this if you had doubts? Couldn’t he have--”

“My mother,” Charles interrupts, and of course Erik should have guessed the reason. King Brian would never go against his wife’s expressed wishes, not even for his beloved son. “And so I must do as my King commands, and hope only to change the fate of those who follow after me.”

The admission is completely unexpected, and wounds Erik like a physical blow; to know that his excitement for the pending engagement isn’t shared by the one he loves. “You don’t want this,” Erik mutters, “any of this. You don’t _want_ to choose a mate.”

Charles doesn’t deny it, though he does gently squeeze Erik’s hand. “I don’t like that I _have_ to choose, that I can’t pick the when and how of my own fate.”

And how could Erik fault Charles for feeling this way, even as he suddenly feels foolish, and his attentions unwelcome? “I see.” Erik sighs, letting go of Charles to scrub his face dejectedly. “I’m sorry.”

“Erik, look at me.” Charles moves to kneel in front of Erik on the grass, and cups Erik’s face tenderly between his hands. “Do you  _want_  to marry me?”

The question leaves him gaping in surprise, the idea that Charles doesn’t know-- “Of course! Of  _course_  I want to marry you, how could you even ask me that, Charles? Don’t you know by now, how I feel about you? How much you mean to me?”

“I  _do_  know, but I ask you, and think carefully before you answer…do you want to marry  _me_ , your friend Charles, or the Xavier heir and the omega of prophecy? Are you marrying me because you really want to spend the rest of your life with me? Or because it’s always been assumed by our parents, and the people around us that we will eventually be wed? All the other suitors here, they would marry me for my title, and for closer ties with Westchester. But I want to be loved for  _me_ , Erik, for the person that I am, and not for heirs or treaties or some supposed grand destiny.”

It’s on the tip of Erik’s tongue to lash out, that Charles would question his intentions, grouping him with the rest of his myriad suitors. But the pained expression on Charles’ face stops him, his need for reassurance evident, as does the counsel he’s been getting from Logan these past few days; to ease the doubts that yet exist in Charles’ mind.

“I love  _you_ ,” Erik states, simply and without reservation, willing Charles to read the sincerity in his words and the utter conviction in his heart. “I’ve loved you since the moment you first stepped out from behind that big oak tree, and told us your name, though I didn’t understand it at the time. I love the way your eyes seem to sparkle when you smile, and the way your nose crinkles when you laugh. I love your love of books and old maps, and the tales you tell about dragons, and your boundless curiosity for all things unknown. I love that you are proud and willful and challenge me at every turn, and yet you remain my dear and faithful friend. And I love that you are loyal and generous to those who matter to you, and that you have the kindest heart of anyone I know. Charles,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss to the palm of Charles’ hand, “I am ever devoted to  _you_ , and I shall spend the rest of my life proving it, if you’ll allow me that honor.”

A smile, tiny but radiant spreads across Charles’ face, his eyes lighting with affection as he presses his fingers against Erik’s cheek. “That was well said, Prince Erik of Genosha,” Charles murmurs, the softness slowly morphing into something mischievous, “and I do believe that a reward is in order.”

Erik arches an eyebrow, his own expression mirroring Charles’ sly grin. “Oh? A reward, you say?”

“Hmm,” Charles answers, and then Erik is scrambling to stay upright as Charles climbs onto his lap, slipping deft fingers through his hair with a pleased hum. “Perhaps…a true love’s kiss?”

 _Yes_ is what Erik thinks when Charles leans down and kisses him, warm and gentle and petal soft against his lips. He’s been dreaming of this moment forever it seems, in every way and every place, and yet nothing in his imagination even comes close to the real thing. With Charles moaning softly as Erik responds with fervor, parting their mouths to deepen the kiss; teasing, _tasting_ as he wraps his arms around Charles and rolls them onto the blanket of grass.

Their kisses go from chastely sweet to heated in mere moments, as Erik settles on top of Charles, nestling between his legs. Charles clings to every inch of him; his shoulders, his back, hands running from his waist to grip his buttocks, as Erik lavishes attention with tongue and lips on every bit of skin he can reach. He groans when Charles arches against him, the urge to _move_ , the heat and friction almost overwhelming, and gasps when Charles bites his lip with a soft growl and reaches to unlace Erik’s tunic.

“Wait, Charles, wait,” he pants, and Charles’ hands still immediately, though he doesn’t let go. “We shouldn’t...”

Charles tugs at the collar of his shirt playfully and teases, “And why not?”

Erik huffs. “Because we’re outside, and people can see--”

“There’s nobody around. This is my secret spot—”

“A secret spot your _sister_ knows about. And Hank.”

Charles rolls his eyes at him, and then slowly, deliberately grinds harder against Erik’s groin. “Trust me. I’ll know if anyone’s coming.”

A bolt of lust shoots straight up his spine, and he buries his face against Charles’s neck, moaning pitifully at the cruelty of the man he would marry. “You’re killing me.”

“No, I’m _seducing_ you.”

Erik grits his teeth to hold back a whimper, trying his best to ignore the nimble tongue tracing the sensitive shell of his ear. Reluctantly, and with great difficulty he pulls away and out of reach, pretending not to see Charles’ exaggerated pout. “You really want to do this _here_? Our first time, in the woods, on the ground like a couple of…peasants?”

Charles laughs. “Peasants? You are such a _snob_ , Erik Lehnsherr. And what’s wrong with doing it here? Where we first met, with this beautiful view of the river and the grass at our feet? The sun warming our skin and the way the light makes your hair almost flaming red, like—“

“I want our first time to be perfect,” he chides, interrupting Charles with a long, drawn out kiss that leaves them both gasping and short of breath. “I would have you when you are mine and I am yours, whole and complete. In a bed covered with silk and furs where we can take all the time in the world to pleasure each other, with no risk of being disturbed. I want to taste every inch of you, Charles; to touch you and kiss you and make love to you until we are utterly exhausted…Does that please you, your Highness?”

With a groan, Charles shoves Erik off of him and onto his back, and then promptly rolls over to straddle him with an easy, fluid grace. “Ugh, I can’t believe you want us to _wait_ ,” he mutters with a petulant sigh. “It had better be worth it.”

Erik grins at the sour look that etches itself all over Charles’ strikingly handsome face. “You’re still such a brat,” he teases, and then topples Charles gently onto the grass, ignoring his indignant shout. “And yes, it’ll be worth it. Trust me.”

“Humph,” Charles grunts, though he doesn’t try to retaliate, instead choosing to brush the loose bits of grass and dirt off his breeches and ignoring him. Erik sighs and nudges him in the side until Charles bursts into laughter, going easily when Erik slings an arm around his shoulder and pulls him close.

“You sure you’re alright?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Charles answers with a sigh. “I’d feel better once all of this is over, and my father makes the announcement. Until then…”

“Hey,” Erik says, tilting Charles’ chin up so they can see eye to eye. “Everything will be fine. I’m going to win the tournament tomorrow, and your parents will be so awed by my exceptional fighting skills they’ll have to agree to my proposal.”

Charles snorts. “Don’t forget your incredible good looks and impeccable manners. I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about that little incident with the gravy.”

They both chuckle at the memory invoked, of a prank gone awry in the first year of their friendship, but the strain is still clearly writ across Charles’ face. Erik thinks he knows the reason for the melancholy mood; a reason they should address frankly if they’re going to build a future together as partners and co-monarchs.

“There’s more to it isn’t there? Then just about having to choose? It’s about Logan too, isn’t it?”

From the look on Charles’ face he’s hit the target dead in the center, as Charles’ eyes dart from Erik to the ripples in the water and back again. “What…what about Logan?”

Erik rolls his eyes, taking Charles’ hand and threading their fingers together with a wry smile. “I mean your feelings for him. And his for you.”

At least the mild sting of being right is offset by the satisfaction gained from seeing Charles’ reaction; he gapes at Erik with what could only be genuine surprise. “You knew…but how… How long have you known…?”

Erik shakes his head. “Charles,” he says gently, “I’ve always known.”

“You’ve always--” Charles starts, but then he stops abruptly, staring down at their joined hands and whispers, “You’re not upset?”

The truth is Erik _had_ been upset when he first realized what was happening, that Charles’ strange behavior around Logan had stemmed from his burgeoning feelings for his oldest friend. But he came to realize that his love for them both was more important than petty jealousy…

…and that ultimately, Logan was not and could never be a real choice for Charles.

“I would be lying if I did not confess to some measure of relief that I did not have to compete against Logan for your hand in marriage,” he admits readily, eager to lay all their secrets out in the open. “He is close to me as blood, and the idea of us fighting for your love…”

Charles closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “There’s no fight, Erik; there never was and never will be. Logan…he doesn’t… We’re not…”

“I know. I trust you. And him.”

“It’s just…” Charles leans his head against Erik’s shoulder and murmurs, “It doesn’t seem fair, you know. That we’ll be together, and he’ll be alone. I care about him, his happiness. It’s…I want him to be _happy_.”

It’s what Erik wants too, to protect and care for the people he loves most in his life. He wants Logan to fall in love and find happiness of his own, with someone who isn’t bound by the rules and restrictions of those born to royalty.

“He has _us_ ; he’ll never be alone.”

Charles squeezes his hand, and snuggles closer to Erik. “You really mean that? You don’t resent him? Or me? Not even a little?”

“I can afford to be generous, when I’m not the one who has to stand by and watch you marry someone else,” he replies, placing a long, lingering kiss on Charles’ forehead. “And I swear to you, Charles Francis Xavier…I’ll love you enough for the both of us.”

 


	8. The Tournament - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles and Erik steal a few moments alone before the Tournament. And Logan has an engagement gift for Charles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've decided to split this one into two parts, because otherwise this would be a monster-sized chapter compared to the others. But mainly, I did it so I could post this NOW, versus waiting potentially forever for me to finish writing the fighting bits in the back half of this chapter. :D

The steady fall of rain ushers in the new day, an auspicious sign according to Warren, who has come to attend Charles’ engagement festivities in place of his teacher, Seer Adler. Rain is the symbol of life and rebirth, he tells them over their morning meal, a favorable sign from the gods for the pending announcement.

His parents are pleased by the prognosis – his father smiles and squeezes Charles’ shoulder, while his mother only nods her head, well versed as she is in the signs and their various meanings.

They inquire after the Seer of course, and are surprised to learn of her waning health. Though the Lady Irene’s visits have lessened in recent years – going from month long stays to a few days every other year – this is the first time that the truth of her condition has been shared with those outside the Order. And Warren’s purpose here now becomes ever clearer; as her successor, he will need to build ties of his own with all the ruling families of Heven, for the inevitable day when he must take over as Grand Seer.

But all Charles can think about, is how the rain will make it difficult for the competitors, with the arena reduced to a veritable quagmire of mud and sand. He knows that the engagement isn’t contingent on the outcome of the day’s events, yet he finds that he can’t help himself; he wants nothing more than for Erik to emerge as the tournament’s victor.

He wants his parents - and the other rulers of Heven present - to witness Erik’s prowess in combat, and know that he and Charles are a perfect match; that their union will be one of equals, foretold by fate. A strong bond made stronger, and blessed by the gods.

But most importantly he wants Erik to beat _Cain Marko_ , and rid any remaining notion from the man’s head that he will ever have a chance with Charles – in this lifetime or the next.

Once breakfast is finished Charles makes a polite but hurried exit, heading out of his parents’ rooms towards the guest wing. He dashes quickly past both the guards and the servants bustling about, offering an apologetic smile as he almost runs over a surprised Prince Armando and various members of his retinue. Another sharp turn and Charles happens upon Essex as he’s exiting the Markos’ quarters, the startled wariness on the Chancellor’s face morphing quickly into disapproval, no doubt at the sight of the Crown Prince dashing haphazardly through the castle’s halls. It’s easily ignored by Charles as he races by, caring little as he does for the man’s opinions, and even less of his sycophantic rapport with the Markos.

He slows as he approaches the Lehnsherrs’ quarters, taking a moment to smooth out his tunic before knocking on the door. One of the Queen’s ladies in waiting answers only moments later, smiling at him with wry amusement when he waves away her low curtsy, and interrupting her announcement of arrival with a quick ‘shh’. It’s rather a common occurrence after all, Charles’ presence in the Lehnsherr’s living quarters, and he is keen to keep all formalities out of their interactions for as long as he can.

Voices float in from the receiving room, the familiar sound of Queen Edie’s laughter, mixed with the low, intimate chuckle of Sebastian Shaw. The siblings seem rather intent in their conversation, their heads bent together, oblivious to Charles’ arrival. As ever, their interaction stirs his curiosity and he edges a little closer, hoping to catch a snippet or two of their conversation…

…only for a hand to cover his mouth unexpectedly, and for someone to haul him bodily around a pillar and press him roughly against the wall.

“Gotcha.”

Erik grins, entirely too pleased with himself for catching Charles off guard; not an easy feat considering Charles' ability to sense the minds of others. But Erik’s presence – and Logan’s – have long become safe and familiar, so woven into the fabric of his awareness that they’ve almost become an organic part of him.

“Bastard,” he hisses, as soon as Erik removes the hand over his mouth. “I can’t believe you snuck up on me like that!”

“You’re getting sloppy, Charles. What does Logan always say? _Keep your mind sharp. Be aware of your surroundings at all times._ ” Erik chuckles. “What if I’d been someone else?”

“Then I would have stabbed you before you had the chance to make your next move,” Charles replies, and nudges the dagger hidden in his sleeve, still sheathed, against Erik’s gut. “Don’t get cocky just because you happened to beat me in our last match. You got lucky, Your Highness.”

“Lucky?” Erik smirks, pressing ever closer against Charles, who laughs. “Lucky? I think you lost because you got distracted by my dashing good looks. You couldn’t stop staring at me.”

“Because your form was terrible! You were leaving your flank wide open for an attack! And how many times has Logan told _you_ not to rely solely on your connection to metal? You have to be able to fight unarmed; if you lose your sword for some reason and can’t—”

Quiet laughter and an amused snort surprises them from their bickering, with Erik almost tripping over his feet as he leaps backwards to put the ‘proper’ amount of space between omega and suitor. Charles barely manages to hold back an epic eye roll; they’ve been as close and closer since they were children, used to stripping down to their trousers to wrestle in the mud, and falling into tired heaps on top of Logan after training, a tangled mess of limbs and stinking of sweat.

It would hardly surprise _Edie_ of all people to find them in such a position, seemingly inappropriate or not.

“Charles,” King Sebastian says, with a friendly pat on his back and a quick wink aimed at Erik. He gives Charles’ shoulder a light squeeze before steering him into the receiving room, Erik quickly following behind with Edie on his arm. “Come and join us! Tell us how your training is going.”

“It’s going very well, Your Majesty--”

“ _Sebastian_ , please, I insist,” he interrupts, and then adds with a smirk, “though you’ll be calling me ‘Uncle’ too soon enough, won’t you, my dear boy?”

“Uncle, _please_ ,” Erik groans, which just seems to amuse the King even more. And Edie tries valiantly – if unsuccessfully – not to snicker, pointedly ignoring the flush creeping up the back of Erik’s neck. “There’s still the tournament this afternoon, and we won’t know for sure until King Brian’s announcement tonight at the feast…”

“Details,” Shaw replies, waving Erik’s objections away with an easy flick of his hand. “It’s as good as done, this next bit of spectacle aside. Now sit, both of you. Charles, would you like something to eat? Some tea?”

It’s difficult to be in the presence of a man like Sebastian Shaw and not feel just a little intimidated, his cold, calculating edges barely hidden by all that gregarious charm. And though their occasional dealings continue to be educational and intriguing for Charles, the man’s relationship with Erik has begun to fray in the days and months after Jakob’s death, with Shaw’s strong opinions so markedly different from his late father’s subtle teachings.          

“Thank you, but I’ve already eaten,” Charles says, just as a servant appears with a pot of brewed Wakandan tea. “I just came to see Erik to wish him luck.”

Edie smiles. “I’m sure Erik will do very well today, with your encouragement from the stands. It’s too bad that you won’t be participating, Charles. It’s been a while since I’ve had the pleasure of watching you spar. Logan tells me you’ve become quite skilled with your daggers.”

“Logan is being kind. He’s an exceptional teacher.”

“And you’re being entirely too modest,” Edie chides, a teasing grin on her face. “I should have very much liked to see you compete. I imagine you would win me quite a lot of gold in any wagers made.”

The King laughs whole-heartedly in agreement, and Erik looks so exceptionally proud it fills Charles’ heart full to bursting. But it also stirs the resentment that’s been stewing in his gut, at being forced to sit idly on the sidelines. He knows well why they are holding the tournament today, and that his duty as guest of honor is to be gracious and to cheer for the participants. But he would much rather be the one going _in_ the ring, to know honor in combat and be recognized for his fighting skills; to be admired for something other than being beautiful, and desired, and a sought-after mate.

“Thank you, Edie, though I’m certain Erik will do just as well for you, and better,” is what Charles says out loud. “I’m really quite keen to see the match between Queen Moira and Logan. I understand the MacTaggerts have a long tradition with the bow and arrow, but that the Queen herself is quite masterful with her battle axe.”

“That will be a good match indeed,” Edie agrees, smiling softly at Shaw as he reaches for the pot to refill her cup. “It’s too bad your uncle has decided not to participate, Erik. I used to love watching him and Emma spar. She’s the only one that could ever keep him on his toes.”   

“Ah, don’t let her words fool you two; she’s every bit as formidable as Emma in the ring,” the King counters, as Erik looks on fondly between mother and uncle. “What I wouldn’t give to see Edie go up against MacTaggert in a duel! Now _that_ would be a good fight!”

They continue to discuss the various matches set for the afternoon, and Charles’ mind begins to drift, eager as he is to escape for time alone with Erik away from prying eyes. Their interactions have been all too brief since the Lehnsherrs arrived for his birthday celebration, and Charles is keen to share a few words of support with him – and possibly another kiss or three – before the tournament begins.

So it’s rather embarrassing when Charles realizes with a start, that the others have stopped talking and are all staring at him, with amusement clearly writ across their faces. He has no idea how long he’s been musing over the previous day’s events by the river; at the way Erik so readily and passionately pledged his love and devotion…

And the way it had _thrilled_ to finally kiss him, and to know that a lifetime of the same awaited them both.

Edie sighs, lips curling into a sly grin, the same one Charles sees on Erik’s face when he’s being particularly vexing. “I think we’ve bored the children enough with our talk, don’t you think, brother? Shall we send them off?”

“Oh yes,” Shaw agrees readily, and Charles flushes at the knowing look the King of Aerie sends his way. “Run along now and enjoy yourselves. Just don’t forget to turn up on time for the tournament, or Queen Sharon will have both your hides.”

He means to deny their teasing words - to protest for the sake of good manners drilled into him since birth - but Erik is already up and grabbing his hand, practically hauling him from the table. There’s barely enough time to toss a ‘thank you’ over his shoulder, before Erik is dragging him out of the room and down the corridor, bypassing various startled servants and guards at a brisk pace.

“Where are we going?” he asks, as Erik guides them away from the guest wing and back towards the Royal quarters. “We can’t go to my rooms. Angel is there, and Mother will be around all morning.”

“Trust me, I know just the place,” Erik replies, and then laughs when Charles gives him a dubious look. “I promise. You’ll love it. Come on.”

And that’s how Charles finds himself sneaking inside Seer Adler’s empty quarters and through to the hidden garden outside; the same place they’d received their readings, all those years ago. It really is the perfect retreat for the two to them to steal a few quiet moments, since the clearing by the river would take them too far from the castle. They find themselves a quiet spot beside the pond and collapse there side by side, inhaling the sweet scent of lilacs under the swaying trees.

“I have missed you,” Erik says, brushing his thumb across Charles’ cheek.

“You’re ridiculous. I saw you just last night, at dinner.”

“Too long,” Erik insists, and Charles laughs, pressing their lips together with a soft, contented sigh. He groans when Erik slips a tongue inside his mouth to deepen their kiss, and leans eagerly against the hand that moves to cradle the back of his head. “I’ve done nothing but dream about kissing you again. I can’t sleep…I can barely think straight.”

Charles snickers, and pushes Erik away with a hand to his chest. “Then you’d best stop dreaming and start using the right _head_ ,” he teases, making Erik huff in feigned indignation. “You can’t lose to Cain today--”

“Your father’s not going to make you marry him no matter _what_ —“

“—or we’ll never hear the end of it, for as long as we live! He’ll complain about the unfairness of winning the tournament but _not_ be granted my hand, and he’ll bear a grudge against our Houses forever! You have to beat him!”

Erik tilts his head to look at him with a critical eye, and reaches to pull him closer. “You’re…are you afraid of him? Because of what happened yesterday? You don’t need to be, Charles. He wouldn’t dare lay a hand on you for real, nor would I let him hurt you in any way. I swear it.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” he snaps, pushing away the images that surface uninvited, of Cain _pressing down_ on him, his hands _hard_ and _bruising_ – “he’s nothing more than an unmannered bully. But he’s also heir to Sakaar’s throne, and we will have to deal with him in the years to come. Best not to give quarter now, lest he think we’re soft and easily cowed.”

Unexpectedly, Erik makes a face and pulls away, laying down on the grass with a sigh. “You know, for a moment there you sounded just like my uncle.” 

Charles grunts. “And that’s bad?”

“No! Not bad!” Erik answers with a quick shake of his head. “It’s just…it reminded me of his lessons that’s all. He’s been urging me to take a stronger stance against the Vikaars, to stand up to their claims of poor harvests and low yields. He thinks they’re taking advantage of my father’s death and my own inexperience, and that I need to show them I’m not to be underestimated.”

He takes Erik’s hand and kisses it gently, and lets himself be pulled easily into Erik’s arms. “And you think he’s wrong?”

“No…I don’t know. He would have me march an army to their lands and carry away the tribute owed, and slaughter any who oppose me. But that is my uncle’s way, Charles, not mine, and not my father’s. He wouldn’t want me to hurt innocent people for the sake of my reputation. Not even for more grain and lumber to feed and house Genoshans. Not while I had a choice.”

Charles wraps his arms around Erik, and hugs him tight. “You’ll do the right thing for you, and for Genosha. I know it. I have faith in you.”

“You do?” Erik asks, his words muffled as he kisses the top of Charles’ head.

“Of course I do. You’ve never been one to walk the path dictated by others. And if you need help with your uncle…well you have me. And your mother too.”

Erik chuckles. “You would go against my uncle? For me? I thought you were a great admirer of his, the mighty King of Aerie. You said he was impressive, and politically savvy, and—“

“Shut up,” Charles interrupts, flushing at the words of admiration his younger self had shared with Erik about Sebastian Shaw. “I would go against the entire world for you, Erik Lehnsherr, soon to be King of Genosha. I love you.”

“I know,” Erik whispers, nuzzling his hair, trailing gentle lips along the curve of his neck, making his breath hitch at the kiss placed ever so lightly against the hollow of Charles’ throat. “I know.”  


* * *

  
Too soon, Charles finds himself back in his own quarters, with just enough time to eat a light luncheon before he has to get dressed for the tournament. He balks at the new clothes his mother commissioned for him from the Royal Tailor - soft fabrics shimmering and extravagant and entirely too formal, and completely inappropriate for a sporting event outdoors. It sours his mood even further than his morning conversation with Erik about Cain, though Raven tries valiantly to distract him with her usual barbed humor.

“You look lovely, Charles. Look at you, _the_ _most beautiful omega in all the world,”_  Raven sings, bowing low with an exaggerated flourish.  _“Your eyes are blue as the bluest sky! Your lips are red as the reddest rose! Your skin white as marble and smooth as—”_

“Stop, please. You’re being ridiculous. Nobody _actually_ says those—”

“Hank and I have been privy to more than one drunken conversation between knights of the various kingdoms. Trust me when I say, that’s not even the most flower-y prose we’ve heard over the past few nights. Now _I_ was going to tell them that your feet smells and you’ve got a terrible singing voice, but Hank insisted that I stay quiet, and not ruin your mystique.”

Charles huffs, hiding a grin as he secures the thick belt around his waist, checking his reflection in the bronze mirror as he straightens his collar. He offers a grateful smile though, when Raven bats his hands away and promptly takes over, fixing his cuffs and smoothing the fabric of his silver and blue tunic.

“You shouldn’t mingle with the knights, nor should you drag poor Hank along on your misadventures,” Charles chides half-heartedly, knowing his words will fall on deaf ears. “You’re a Princess of Westchester, Raven—“

“Oh, come on, Charles! We’re just sharing ale and conversation. Hardly getting into any trouble--”

“—and if Mother finds out you’ve been fraternizing with the ‘common folk’, she’ll confine you to your quarters for the rest of the festivities.”

Raven scoffs. “I’m not stupid, Charles! I don’t go to the barracks dressed like _this_!” she objects, twirling her satin gown in a full circle for maximum effect. “I change the way I look! They think I’m some random Westchester knight, that’s all.”

He turns, catching her by the shoulders and pinning her in place with a steady gaze. “I could never think that, darling. You are quite brilliant, and your Gift is incredible, only…please do be careful? For my sake? I know I’m being selfish here, but I need you by my side to help me get through the rest of all this _engagement_ stuff.”

She smiles, sweet and shy like the fourteen year old girl she is, when she’s not determined to act like the elder sibling to Charles. “Of course I’ll be careful. And I’m here for you, no matter what.”

“Good,” he says, and presses a kiss to her forehead. “And do make sure you keep Hank out of your mad schemes. You know that boy will do anything you ask of him.”

“You mean, as opposed to you, with Erik and Logan?” Raven teases.

Charles laughs. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

They spend a few more minutes bickering good-naturedly, with Raven taking a comb to Charles’ head, wrestling valiantly to tame his unruly curls. It helps to settle his nerves, this quiet time spent alone with his sister; he thinks idly of how much he’ll miss her daily presence once he and Erik are married.

Angel interrupts them just as Raven finishes with his hair, to announce the arrival of a visitor – frankly the last person Charles expects to see in private on today of all days. Thankfully, Raven chooses to bite her tongue when Logan enters, only shooting Charles a sharp look – _go easy on him_ , she sends – before trailing after Angel out the door.

She need not have worried, for Charles can hardly do more than stare, heart sore at the sight of Logan – clad in his leathers, and sporting the scruffy beard that makes him look years older and all the more handsome.

“Hello,” Charles says, after a few moments of awkward silence. “I didn’t think I’d see you again until the tournament. Not that I don’t want to see you now! I do,” he adds hurriedly, as Logan shifts uncomfortably, still standing stiffly by the door. “I just…” He stops, and takes a deep breath. “Good luck out there today. For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to beat Moira MacTaggert.”

Logan laughs, huffing with amusement as Charles crosses the room slowly to stand in front of his friend. “Thank you, though personally, I’m not so sure. Maybe, if I was fighting her with my claws and not a sword. Either way, I won’t be foolish enough to underestimate her.”

“Quite right,” Charles agrees, and reaches carefully to take Logan’s hand, leading him further into the room. “You know, I’ve hardly seen you since you arrived at Graymalkin, except for that business yesterday in the training ring. You’re not avoiding me, are you?”

He doesn’t get a response, at least not immediately, which for Logan is as good as a full-on confession. “I’ve been busy,” Logan says gruffly, pointedly _not_ looking Charles in the eye as he continues, “making sure our knights don’t embarrass the House of Lehnsherr at the tournament. And you’ve been busy yourself, what with all the guests, and with Eri…”

“With Erik?” Charles finishes, and Logan looks uncomfortable, and more than a little annoyed at the way his words came tumbling out, revealing much more than he likely ever intended. “You must know that—” And then Charles is the one to stop abruptly, and swallow the lump gathering in his throat. “You are so very dear to me, Logan. No matter what happens between Erik and I, know that I value you greatly, and that you will always be an important part of my life.”

It isn’t nearly enough - words so clearly inadequate to describe all that Logan truly means to Charles; that he is Charles’ patient teacher, erstwhile champion, and most true and loyal friend. And there are different words too to explain his feelings for Logan Howlett – secret, impossible words – that he pushes down, tucking them ruthlessly and painfully out of sight.

Logan’s expression softens; he reaches into his jerkin, and pulls a small satin pouch from his inside pocket. Taking Charles’ fingers, he gives them a light squeeze before placing the pouch gently onto Charles’ outstretched hand.

“What is it?”

“A gift, for your engagement,” Logan replies, as Charles unties the string, extracting the contents to reveal a round medallion embossed in red and gold, with a stylized outline of a wolf on top a golden shield. “It’s my family crest…or I should say the Howletts’ crest. This…this was my mother’s.”

“Logan," he breathes, "I couldn’t possibly—”

“I know you’re going to get a lot of gifts, both bigger and better, once the announcement is made. And I know it’s not much, but I’ve been carrying it around with me since she died. It was a little like having her looking out for me still…my own personal lucky charm.”

Charles shakes his head. “Why are you giving this to _me_? Your _mother’s_ \--I can’t take this.”

“Please, I want you to have it.” Logan takes the medallion from Charles’ hand, and loops it gently over his head. “Things are going to change for all of us, even with the best of intentions. But I want you to know that I’ll always be on your side, Charles Francis Xavier. You have my oath that I will do everything in my power to protect and defend you, for the rest of our lives.”

“You’re too good to me,” Charles whispers, pulling Logan into a tight embrace. “I don’t deserve you.”

Logan chuckles, warm breath ruffling the hair on Charles’ head. “You deserve more than anything I have to give. I love you.”

And for once, Logan doesn’t add the words _as a brother. As my friend_. 


	9. The Tournament - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles receives a priceless gift from his father. And a vicious battle ensues between Erik and Cain Marko.

By the time his father arrives to escort him to the tournament grounds, Logan has long since disappeared from his rooms, giving Charles time alone to think and to regain his composure. The medallion he tucks carefully inside his tunic - still warm from Logan’s body heat - settling it protectively against his still racing heart.

“I understand young Howlett came to visit,” Brian says upon entering his quarters, concern bleeding through careful nonchalance when he takes in Charles’ red rimmed eyes. “Is everything alright?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine,” he answers, and then, “we’re just…Logan’s excited for the tournament, as am I. In fact, I think it’s probably time for us to head out and join the others. I’m sure they’re all anxious to get started.”

Charles brushes past him on the way to the door, only to slow and then turn in surprise when Brian crosses the room instead of following him. Only now does he notice the wooden box in his father’s hands, intricately carved and bearing the Westchester seal – about the length and width of his forearm – carefully being set on the table.

“I’m sure they won’t mind waiting a few extra minutes. And they can hardly begin without us, yes? Now, tell me what’s troubling you.”

“Nothing. Nothing is troubling me, really; I’m fine.”

His father snorts, and Charles flushes a little under his disbelieving gaze. “You’re ‘fine’. You know it’s alright to feel a little sorry for yourself today, if that’s indeed how you feel.”

Charles hums, the sound deliberately vague and neutral. “Is it? There are people here from all the other kingdoms of Heven, to celebrate my coming of age. And I’m to be engaged…what could I possibly have to feel sorry about?”

“How about the alpha you would consider most seriously, if his suit weren’t forbidden by Westchester law? Or the fact that you would put off today’s engagement for months, perhaps years, if you could? As king, I am hardly blind to the hopes and wishes of those around me, especially not my own son’s.”

The assertion startles him, enough to bring the long simmering hurt and resentment bubbling to the surface. He knows even as the words leave his mouth that he is being unfair and unkind; though he does not enjoy the same closeness with his parents as Erik does with Edie - and with Jakob while he lived – there can be no doubt that the Xaviers _do_ love him, their affection for Charles conveyed through less direct and obvious ways.

“If you cared about my feelings you wouldn’t have gone ahead with these festivities. You would have stood up to Mother and come to my defense! You know as well as I do that I don’t need to be _married_ to perform my duties as Crown Prince—”  

“I’m sorry, Charles, I am. But your mother insisted—“

“—and you would have found another mind reader to tutor me all these years, instead of standing by and watching me struggle all on my own! You could _certainly_ have announced my engagement to Erik without all this unnecessary ceremony, instead of parading me around all these so called ‘suitors’! You never fight for _me_ , Father, so it hardly matters if you’ve noticed my feelings at all!”

The silence that follows is thunderous, and Charles curses himself for his outburst; it is hardly the time or the place – moments before the tournament start – to air his litany of grievances, whether to his father _or_ his king. And he could hardly have expected a different outcome, since Charles had never shared his misgivings; his mother would only have lectured him on the duties and privileges of royalty, her cold logic prevailing over any impassioned objections he could make…

And his father would inevitably side with her, as with most decisions pertaining to their only child by blood.

“Charles—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, scrubbing his face with both hands tiredly. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I don’t mean to be rude, or ungrateful. I think I’m just a little overwhelmed, that’s all.”

“My dear boy,” his father tries again, this time, coming around to stand before him and grip him gently by the shoulders. “It’s clear to me now how poorly your mother and I have handled all of this, though I swear we made our decisions only with your best interests at heart.”

“I know, Father, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No, let me try to explain,” Brian interjects. “It’s important that you understand the reason at least, for all this ‘pomp and ceremony’, as you say. Tell me, Charles, what do you think would have happened, if we’d announced your engagement to Erik, and given no opportunity for others to court you?”

He hesitates, and Brian guides him to the closest chair, settling beside him with a measuring hum. “Nothing. I’m not sure. Perhaps the Markos would have something to say about it, knowing Cain.”

“Yes, the Markos for one,” his father agrees, “would have protested vehemently. And though I have little appreciation for Cain Marko, I hold his father in esteem, and have no wish to offend the King of Sakaar. But that’s not all. Duke Steven, Prince Armando, Queen Moira – they’re all important figures from kingdoms much larger or more powerful than Genosha. You are the omega of prophecy, son; it would be a great insult to their Houses to deny them their suit.”

Charles grimaces, shaking his head as he considers his father’s words. “You made no mention of Sebastian Shaw.”

Brian chuckles, and squeezes his shoulder again. “Shaw means to reunite Aerie and Genosha through his beloved nephew. An alliance with Westchester will help solidify his plans. I dare say he’s the only one who would have wholeheartedly supported an engagement outright.”

“So this was the only way to appease the other royal Houses? To ensure that we garner no ill will for choosing Erik, and the Lehnsherrs?” Charles asks.

“Oh, I’m not sure that’s entirely avoidable,” Brian counters, “but no one will be able to use our handling of the situation as an excuse to move against us. Wars have been fought over far lesser grudges, you know.”

“Do you…” Charles starts, clutching at the fabric of his trousers between his fingers as he mulls over the rest of his question. He hesitates for long moments before plowing ahead, both dreading and needing to know the truth about his parents’ desires and intentions. “Did you and Mother have hope that I would choose another? A better, more advantageous match for Westchester?”

Heart thumping in his chest, Charles waits as Brian carefully ponders his answer, doubt slowly settling in his gut with each excruciating second that passes. He lets out a sigh of relief then when Brian shakes his head, and clasps Charles’ knee with a reassuring hand. “Your mother would not have been opposed to it I think, if you decided on one of the others. She married for duty herself, and love of country after all. You mustn’t fret though, Charles; she does like Erik, even if she hasn’t said it outright. In her heart of hearts, I think she envies you the chance to marry for love.

“As for me, well, I _did_ marry the one that I love, and so I can hardly begrudge my son the chance to do the same.”

Curiosity, and the wistfulness in his father’s voice convinces Charles to ask what he’s always wanted to know about his parents’ bond. “You were in love with Mother, when you married her…but she wasn’t with you?”

Brian smiles, eyes almost twinkling with warmth as he recalls for Charles the memories of their first meeting in Sakaar. “I was visiting the Markos, you know, my first official visit abroad as King of Westchester, and she was there at the banquet they threw in my honor. Sharon was…well, she was beautiful, well read and well spoken, and I found myself already quite besotted by that first evening’s end.”

Charles allows himself a small smile at the thought of a young and impressionable Brian Xavier, hopelessly enamored with someone he’d just met; as passionate and boldly impetuous as his own Erik. “I sought her out as often as I could over the course of my stay, and found her delightfully brilliant if occasionally sharp-tongued. She was gracious, but also politely distant, which I interpreted as carefulness in conduct around a visiting monarch,” his father explains. “I inquired after her status and was told she was yet un-promised, and the day before I left I was drawn into discussion with Kurt’s mother, the Queen.” He pauses then, his smile turning wry and cutting. “She offered to secure a match for me with Sharon’s family, and like the love-struck fool I was, I happily accepted without thought. It was not until later, after I returned to Westchester that I discovered the truth; that Sharon had an understanding with another, though they were not yet formally betrothed.”

A great swell of understanding and pity washes over Charles. “They forced her to break ties with her beloved, and marry you for political gain.”

“I suppose I could have ended the engagement once I discovered the truth, but it would have been difficult, especially for your mother, as the announcement had already been made both here and in Sakaar. She would have been blamed and her family disgraced, through no fault of theirs,” Brian continues, “and if I am to be completely honest…I did not _want_ to give her up, and convinced myself I was doing the right thing by doing nothing at all.”

Charles grimaces, and then abruptly schools his expression, though Brian only nods along in agreement with his silent disapproval. “She must have been heartbroken.”

“I believe so, though she has never admitted such,” his father answers. “She has ever been pragmatic and resourceful, and as good a wife as I could have ever wanted. I’ve carried the shame of my inaction all these years since our wedding, and so I promised myself that I’d do everything in my power to make her happy.”

“So your regrets and Mother’s happiness…that’s why I’ve never had a tutor, and why I must be married when I turn eighteen.”

The words are tinged with a bitterness he can’t help but harbor for his parents; for his mother’s outdated views and for his father’s guilty conscience, working in tandem to deny Charles what he’s wanted since he was old enough to understand his life’s trajectory. The love story he’d been so keen to hear now feels both fragile and hollow, and he is infinitely relieved at least to be spared the same thing; for circumstances to dictate a marriage to one while fate offered your heart to another.

“You’re angry with me,” Brian says, and at least he seems more resigned than surprised at Charles’ reaction. “And disappointed. I understand, and I wish there was something I could do or say that would make things right. But I will have no lies between us, son. I’m _glad_ I married your mother, not only because I love her, but also because she gave me the best thing in my life - you. Whatever you may think of my deeds, know that I love you, that I’m proud of you, and that I’m so very pleased you found your heart’s true calling with young Erik Lehnsherr.”

“I just—” He stops; a part of him is thrilled to hear such words of approval, especially today, knowing that he has his father’s unwavering support. But there is also misgiving in his heart, that his mother should live a life not of her own choosing. Did she still resent Brian, all these years later?

Did she resent Charles?

“Do you think she’s happy now?” he asks, watching carefully the minute shifts of his father’s expression. “Do you think…she would give us up - our family, our life here - if she had the choice?”

Brian sighs, absently brushing the silver threads of his embroidered tunic. “I know that I love her, and that she loves me in return. Whether her love for me would be sufficient to keep her by my side; that she would give up our marriage for another chance at…I honestly couldn’t say for sure. But I _do_ know, with everything that I am that she would never give _you_ up, son. Our children are the best of us, and no person with goodness and honor in their heart could choose otherwise.”

“I fear that I have judged Mother poorly,” Charles replies, feeling a sense of kinship for the first time with the omega who birthed him. “Her reasons, and her motivations. What can I do to make things right?”

“There is nothing you need to do, and no amends to make. A parent’s burdens should not be carried by their child. But we have spoken long enough on this, don’t you think? It is your birthday, and the day of your engagement, Charles. Come and see what I have for you, on this most important of days.”

Curiosity piqued he allows his father’s redirection, gently brushing his hands over the seal of the wooden box now placed before him. Anticipation grips him as he pops open the lid, momentarily forgetting to breathe at what he finds hidden inside, laid out on a bed of purple velvet.

“These are—”

“The Daggers of Aerys,” Brian states, as Charles gapes openly at the treasures he has only ever heard spoken in tales. “The Dragon’s Claw and Tooth, taken from the Great Beast when it was slain by Charles the Second. These are the heirlooms of our House, Charles, and priceless beyond imagining. They are yours now; a worthy gift I hope, from father to son and one monarch to the next.”

Wicked sharp are they, Charles can tell from such a close distance, as though freshly hewn from the dragon’s body, and not dusty artifacts from another Age. One is curved like a hook, a talon almost as long as Charles’ arm; the other pointed with a serrated edge, nearly as long as its mate and just as deadly.

“Here,” his father urges, plucking them from their case and placing them into Charles’ hands. “Test them out.”

He can scarcely breathe as he balances them, checking their weight, acclimatizing to the feel of the daggers between the palms of his hands. Lighter than metal, they remind Charles of Logan’s bone claws, and make a similar whistling sound when he slices them quickly through the air. Already they feel like natural extensions of his body, as though the pair had been designed and crafted just for him.

“They will neither bend nor break under metal and fire,” Brian explains with a chuckle, “and will not answer to young Lehnsherr’s call. Perhaps now, in the training ring he will not have such an unfair advantage.”

Charles laughs. “He’ll think twice about fighting me now, if he knows what’s good for him.”

“Indeed he will,” his father agrees, patting Charles good-naturedly on the shoulder. “As I certainly hope your years of friendship should have taught him never to underestimate you. Now, we best get ourselves to the tournament grounds, before you mother sends a scout for us.” He looks Charles up and down with a critical eye and grins. “Though there’s time enough for a quick change into your armor, so you can bear your new birthday gift.”

“Oh…,” he replies, surprised, but utterly thrilled at the thought of shedding his fancy, impractical garments for something much more fitting for the arena and the outdoors. “But Mother said--”

“Charles,” his father chides with a gentle smile, turning him around and nudging him towards his inner bedchamber. “You let me worry about that, and just concentrate on getting ready. Contrary to what you believe I _have_ disagreed with your mother before, and lived to see a new day. Put on the armor, so all will see you as the fine warrior you are…they’ve already seen plenty of the Omega of Prophecy.”

It’s not the same as competing in the festivities, but Charles takes his father’s offer for the kindness intended, and pulls him into a hearty embrace. “Thank you…for everything.”

Brian smiles, and presses a kiss to top of his head, like he used to do when Charles was just a boy. “Happy birthday, son. I hope you remember this day with great joy in the years to come.”

* * *

  
As expected, the grounds are awash with mud from the steady rain, making everything thick and sluggish for the first of the participants filing in to take their place. The servants have been scrambling dutifully since morning to raise the canopy above the spectators’ seats, and to stretch waterproof skins over the seating around the arena, allowing the tournament to proceed with minimal disruption. And though it helps to mitigate much of the dampness, Charles is still relieved to be clad in his thick leather armor, instead of the flimsy silk of his ceremonial robes in this inclement weather.

He scans the crowd from his place in the royal box, sandwiched between his mother and father, with Raven and Essex seated behind them. His suitors are each settled in their own sections with their respective company - kin and nobles and knights from the various kingdoms of Heven. It is the first time that he has been given his father’s usual place, in the middle of the raised platform, an honor and a message to all in attendance.

That this event is being held in Charles’ name, and so to Charles must the participants look for recognition and accolades.

The buzz dims when his father stands, an expectant hush falling over the crowd as the King of Westchester makes his speech.

“Be welcome, friends and esteemed guests, on this most joyous of days! We are pleased to have so many of you here with us, from all the kingdoms of Heven, to celebrate the occasion of our son’s fifteenth birthday. Know that we are greatly honored by your presence, here today and for all of this week’s festivities. May lasting friendship and goodwill bless all of our Houses, no matter the outcome of this tournament, and the suit for Charles’ hand.”

The applause is loud and the response warmly given; Charles can hear shouts and laughter interspersed with the ruckus cheering of the knights in the crowd. The various royal guests are easily distinguishable in the sea of faces, and his eyes are drawn instinctively to the Genoshans, landing quickly on Erik and Logan, seated side by side on the stands.

His breath catches at the sight of them, both clad in leather armor and so very handsome, looking almost identical but for the red and gold heraldry of Erik’s fur lined cape. Queen Edie sits to the left of his friends, regal in cloaked red velvet, while Sebastian Shaw smiles serenely at her side, clad in a midnight black tunic instead of armor, though no less impressive for the choice of attire.

Erik winks at him, and Charles’ heart swells at the winning smirk that crosses his face, even as it aches a little too at the soft, encouraging smile Logan sends his way. And though a part of him mourns greatly for what can never be, he is also infinitely relieved at the choice he doesn’t have to make…

…to choose between one of his heart and the other of his soul.

The herald calls for the first event – jousting between the knights of all seven kingdoms – and Charles settles dutifully into his seat to watch over the proceedings. Valiant attempts are made over the next two hours by every single participant, though more than a few of them slip and fall before a lance ever makes contact with their heavy plated armor.

Charles would laugh at the absurdity of the spectacle, if he didn’t feel sorry for them all.

He stifles his amusement, and nods serenely at each in turn, as the men and women come to bow and pay homage after each match, battered and covered in mud. Around them the servants float to and from the various royal boxes with food and drink, keeping the guests well fed and their thirst quenched, while the mood of the crowd gently waxes and wanes; Charles can divine a general sense of contentment, the buzz of excitement only slightly dampened by the rain.

When the jousting finally comes to a close and the knights return to the stands, the energy of the crowd shifts noticeably, anticipation now filling the air as the second half of the tournament begins. Charles’ own enthusiasm mounts as Prince Armando of Wakanda steps into the center of the arena, followed immediately by Alex Summers of Genosha, for the first of the duels planned today. The pairing is a good one, the combatants fairly evenly matched, and Charles is curious to see which of these two will come out the victor.

It’s fascinating to watch them fight – more as they do so without the use of their respective Gifts – to see how their style changes to accommodate the loss of such a fundamental part of themselves. It’s easier for Alex, Charles thinks, as he swings his blunted long sword to block Armando’s staff; his mutation is rarely used in training, the blast of raw energy unleashed from Alex’s chest too devastating for anything but full scale war. And though Armando’s ability to adapt makes him nigh on invincible, any hit that Alex makes against him here will count as a gain for the latter, rendering his advantage all but ineffectual.

Charles is proven right a short while later, after a tense bout that sees the fight seem to go one way, then the other and back again, when Alex manages to land a lucky strike against Armando’s stomach, shattering the sword against flesh morphed instantly to stone. The crowd roars while the two grin and share quiet words of support, and Armando reaches to pat Alex heartily on the back; a show of good sportsmanship and comradery that brings the boisterous crowd to their feet.

The match between Duke Steven of Attilan and Lord Azazel of Aerie is shorter, but surprisingly, no less rigorous than the one before, no matter that the outcome is largely predetermined. Ill health and a frail form has kept Steven from developing the strength and stamina needed to fight to his fullest potential, though his will alone seems almost enough to prevail over physical shortcomings. Charles is exceptionally proud of his friend’s courage and tenacity, cheering loudly as Steven weaves and dodges Azazel’s blows, using his opponent’s greater size and momentum against him. He is grateful to the Aerian in turn for treating his friend with respect, for fighting as viciously as he would against any other competitor in the tournament.

The cheers are even louder at the end of this fight, when Azazel offers a hand to a fallen Steven, helping him up and out of the mud with a smile.

By the time Queen Moira of the Muir Isles enters the arena with Logan at her heels, the energy is almost electric, and Charles’ own emotions are swept away by the crowd’s wish for a truly epic match. Though theirs is not the last fight – that ‘honor’ falls to Erik and Cain Marko – it is by far the most keenly anticipated by the crowd, with two fighters who can be counted amongst the best in Heven. Only Sebastian Shaw and his absent General can claim to be their equals, and more than a few have lamented the withdrawal of the King of Aerie from the tournament, negating the chance for a glorious showdown between the Dragon King and the Queen of the Seas.

Moira MacTaggert is stunning in shiny leather and a cape of sapphire blue, hefting a giant battle axe custom crafted for just this occasion. Though slight of build, she’s no less impressive than his more physically imposing suitors, bearing an easy air of confidence and grace. Sporting a long braid down her back and no special adornment to signal her rank, Charles finds her altogether captivating; someone he could greatly admire and perhaps come to love, if his heart hadn’t already been so thoroughly claimed.

But for all her beauty she is no match for his beloved friend, the sight of Logan, battle ready and a short sword in each hand, stealing his breath away.

They circle each other eagerly, muscles coiled and excitement barely suppressed, grinning at each other with gleeful ferocity. All around them the crowd waits with bated breath, until the two leap forward with echoing shouts, the clash of sword against axe drowned by the thunderous roar erupting from the stands. Charles’ heart quickens as Moira’s axe sweeps in a wide arc that just barely misses Logan’s chest, and he gasps when Moira ducks beneath Logan’s blades, mere seconds from being caught dangerously by the throat. 

The fighting is intense, and gets more brutal as each minute passes; Charles is on the edge of his seat, nearly vibrating from the crowd’s exhilaration and his own restless thrill. He has to grit his teeth from shouting out when Moira lands a kick and Logan falls, forgetting to breathe until Logan scrambles to his feet and throws her over his shoulder onto the arena floor.

The crowd cheers as the fighters get up and regroup, shaking the rain and the mud off their weapons and leathers. They grin at each other again like children at play, before Moira launches forward with a shout, and Logan is running to meet her with an answering bellow.

They clash, again and again and again, hard and ferocious strikes that ring loud and clear in the relative hush. Charles knuckles are almost white from clutching at the arms of his chair; only a warning glance from his mother reminds him of his role and expected behavior. Though all eyes are currently on the battling pair, they never stray from Charles for long, and he cannot be seen to overly favor one competitor over the other, or do anything to sway their actions in turn.

To everyone’s surprise, the match ends in a tie.

Somehow, Logan manages to knock the axe from Moira’s hands, only to have her strike back with a somersault and kick that sends him flying into the air. He lands with a grunt on his back, but manages to press his sword to her gut when she straddles him, her own axe tight against his throat.

The applause is thunderous, and Charles joins the spectators as they surge to their feet.

“Your Highness,” Moira says, hopping to her feet and extending a hand to Logan to help him up and off the ground. She offers them a nod and a pleased smile, still panting a bit from exertion as she addresses the Westchester royals. “King Brian and Queen Sharon. It was a pleasure to fight for you on this special day, and against such a worthy opponent. I am honored.”

Charles smiles, and has to repress a snicker when Moira gives him a cheeky wink. “Queen Moira, it is I who has been greatly honored today. Thank you for the immense privilege of watching you fight. All of Westchester is humbled by your sublime skill with the axe.”

Formal words for a formal day, and Charles delivers them all with practiced ease, long used to the ceremony required of the heir to the throne. But the flowery praise lodges in his throat when Logan steps forward next, a joyful smile on his lips and eyes focused unerringly on Charles. With armor streaked in mud and twin swords sheathed at his hips, Logan looks _glorious_ , like a warrior god of old. It stirs something inside of Charles that he ruthlessly stifles, throwing his shoulders back to stand tall as Logan offers a respectful bow.

 _Not bad, right? Are you suitably impressed?_ “Your Highness.”

Charles grins. _Not too shabby,_ he replies _, though at the moment you look more like a pig in mud than Captain of the Guard_. “Sir Logan, you fought exceptionally well against a formidable opponent. Genosha is indeed blessed to have such a fine warrior as you. You have our thanks.”

 _Truly you were magnificent today_ , Charles can’t help adding, _I’m so proud of you…and Jakob would have been too._

 _Thank you_ , Logan sends, his smile softer now, and just for Charles. _Happy birthday, little one._

Any other day the nickname would irritate, their noted age difference taken as yet another way to reinforce the lines Logan would never dare cross. But the words are accompanied with such tenderness and warmth that Charles can’t help but smile, and they share a last, knowing look before Logan and Moira depart to make way for the last match of the tournament.

Charles takes a deep breath, and eases back down into his seat.

The crowd stirs, and hushed whispers sweep like wildfire through the stands as the last of the competitors enter from opposite ends of the arena. From the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of Cain Marko, dressed in the colors of his House and bearing a great sword almost the height of Charles, receiving a pat on the back from his father Kurt. He pointedly ignores Cain’s swagger, eyes glued instead to the Lehnsherrs as they embrace, smiling when he sees both Edie and Sebastian whisper words of encouragement to a grinning Erik.

And then their eyes meet across the arena, and Charles can’t stop himself from reaching out; he sends Erik a kiss through their connection – just a light brush against his cheek, for luck – and laughs delightedly when Erik offers him an almost cocky bow in return.

He pretends not to see the scowl on Cain’s face, when Charles acknowledges his more proper bow with the barest nod of his head.

With protocol out of the way, the two fighters turn their attention to one another, making their way slowly to center stage. Thankfully, the rain has finally stopped and there’s better visibility, though the grounds are almost impossible to navigate, the sand and mud trampled and hauled over into sticky, uneven pools of muck and mire. Erik discards his cloak and carries with him only a long sword and shield, a confident sway in his step that reminds Charles distinctly of Sebastian Shaw.

The crowd hushes then, and the match begins.

It starts out slow, as each man weighs the other, circling one another like Logan and Moira though with none of the playful energy. The mood in the air is almost somber; fitting as the two are clearly fighting a very different battle than any of the others that have come before. Cain’s face is set with purpose, his stance loose and confident, mirrored by an Erik standing tall and looking impossibly determined.

The first few strikes are easily blocked, tests of strength and technique without any real fighting taking place. But then Erik hits Cain with his shield, knocking him a few steps back with a growl, and Cain returns the favor with a swing that reverberates through the stands, a blow of sword on shield that almost forces Erik onto his knees.

It’s a harsh, bitter match that rapidly follows, one that gets uglier blow by blow and minute by minute. Cain uses his greater height and strength to pummel his opponent with his massive sword, setting Erik on the defensive, expending energy to dodge and block the relentless hits raining down over his head. But Erik does equal damage with fast, accurate strikes, slamming Cain with his shield with every opening he can spot, slowing him down and knocking him off-kilter.

It’s impossible to know who will come out the victor, and the uncertainty makes Charles’ nerves fray and his stomach churn.

And then Cain knocks the shield from Erik’s hand and sends it sailing to the other side of the arena.

The shock ripples through the stands and knocks the breath from Charles’ lungs as Erik scrambles out of the way of a vicious swipe aimed at his head. Sprawling onto the ground, hands and feet in the mud he’s at a distinct disadvantage, one that Cain is determined to exploit as he drives Erik back ruthlessly, a triumphant smirk already blooming across his face.

Charles looks up and across the arena, eyes locking with a horrified Logan and he knows –

Cain is going to _win_ , and there’s nothing they can do to stop it.

Angry resentment, vicious and overpowering floods Charles’ veins; that such a hateful, malicious man should win, and humiliate them both – to take _Erik’s_ moment away from him – on their special day. He lashes out without thinking, hurling hateful thoughts and hurtful wishes, not realizing what he’s done until Cain suddenly seizes mid-strike and gasps aloud in pain.

The moment’s distraction is enough for Erik, who jumps to his feet and barrels head first into Cain, knocking him onto his back and his sword out of his hand. He points his own blade at Cain’s throat with a snarl, hand wrapped around his neck, while the crowd erupts all around them, elated cheers rising up to swallow the surprised grunt from a disbelieving Cain.

His father stands and everyone follows, applause thundering as Erik pushes up and off Cain’s chest and staggers to his feet. His smile is radiant, but less certain than before; he is well aware of how close he came to ceding the match to his hated rival.

“No!”

The loud cry, unexpected and filled with indignation shocks the crowd into silence, as Cain tosses his sword on the ground in disgust and rounds on Erik with a ferocious snarl. “No! He cheated! You didn’t win that match, I did! How dare you stand here, in front of all of Heven and pretend to have bested me! When you know he helped you win!”

The silence is deafening, the onlookers sharing bewildered glances as they try to make sense of Cain’s angry words. But Charles knows that he’s been thoroughly caught, and Erik too realizes in a flash what happened when he looks up and meets Charles’ panicked gaze.

Kurt Marko moves towards his son - to chastise or support him, Charles doesn’t know - but Brian quickly raises his hand to intercept. His father stares at Cain for a few long moments, disapproval clear and then waves for the audience to take their seats. “You make grave accusations, Prince Cain of Sakaar. Make your claims clearly…or keep your peace.”

It’s a warning that Cain in his anger ignores, still too agitated from a fight he knows he deserved to win. He glares at Charles, who can only tilt his chin up in defiance, a move that makes the words spew unchecked from Cain’s lips. “Prince Charles used his Gift on me, Your Majesty. He struck out with his mind and caused me great pain. He did it to help Lehnsherr, because he was going to _lose_ and I cannot—“

“Charles,” his father asks, cutting through Cain’s bluster, voice soft yet commanding, “did you do as Prince Cain charges? Did you use your Gift, against the tournament’s rules, to intercede on Prince Erik’s behalf?”

There’s a warning there too, this time directed at Charles, though he’s too flustered to discern direction or intent. He must make a decision then on his own, here now in front of hundreds of witnesses, whether to tell the truth and admit his inadvertent error, and give Cain the glory he craves –

– or to lie to preserve his pride and reputation, and earn Cain’s enmity for the rest of their days.

He looks at a nervous Erik, and then at a frowning Logan and replies, “No. I did not.”

“Lies! You’re lying, I know what I felt; it was you! How can you—“

“Prince Cain.”

The crowd stills when the Queen of Westchester rises too from her seat, her voice cutting through the low murmurs, tone cold as ice. Setting her hand on Charles’ right shoulder – a mirror to his father’s hand on his left – she levels a disdainful glare at Cain that freezes him utterly in place.

“You would accuse my son?” she asks, each word sharp and precise, meant to cut and bleed. “Sole heir to the throne of Westchester, the Omega of Prophecy? Do you stand here today, on his birthday, in front of the seven kingdoms of Heven and call him a liar? Is this what you mean to say, _Your Highness_?”

Cain’s face flushes an ugly shade of red, humiliation warring with undisguised rage in the face of the Xaviers united against him. A small kernel of guilt bubbles uncomfortably in Charles gut, until he remembers Cain’s wicked taunts, and his wish to subjugate and claim him, with no care for either his desire or his inclination.

It seems like mere moments, or days, before a hand clamps down hard on Cain’s bicep, and Kurt Marko steps into the fray. His face is a mask of geniality; only the glint of something hard in his eyes betrays his unhappiness at this awkward display.

“Your Majesties, Prince Charles, you must excuse my son his temper,” he says, and Brian’s grip eases just a little on Charles’ shoulder. “He is young, and it was a very hard match. You must forgive him for being a poor loser, unwilling to acknowledge failure in front of his hosts. I ask you for your kind patience…let us put this behind us, and not let a misunderstanding ruin this most important of days.”

“Father—”

“Be silent,” Kurt snaps, and Cain purses his lips, clearly disappointed, though he does as he’s told. Glaring hatefully once more at Charles and then at Erik, he turns and storms out of the arena, disappearing out of sight as his father lets out a sigh. “Brian, I’m sorry—”

His father smiles warmly, and waves away Marko’s apology. “I remember what it is to be so young and hot-headed. It’s forgotten. Let us put this business behind us, and move on to happier things.”

Kurt’s answering smile is…less sincere, and he shares an indecipherable look with Sharon before returning to his seat. Charles is distracted from searching for further meaning though when his father calls out to Erik, and beckons him to come forward and stand before the Xaviers.

“I was going to wait until the feast to make this announcement,” Brian proclaims loudly, and a rush of excited rumblings ripples through the crowd. “But I think now is as good a time as any, am I right? What say you, Charles? Shall we make it official?”

All thoughts of Cain and his tantrum fall away, and Charles grins at a surprised Erik, who looks no less ecstatic. He reaches out, and Erik takes his hand, and then the two are standing together and looking out over the crowd, loud, jubilant cheers filling the stands as Brian says –

“Prince Erik, son of Jakob, heir to the throne of Genosha…we accept your proposal, on behalf of our beloved son.”

It’s a triumph that Charles carries with him through the days and years that follow; memories of that perfect moment in time when he and Erik stand side by side and shoulder to shoulder, in front of all of the kingdoms of Heven, their future together gloriously bright and their lives full of possibility.

* * *

  
Two years later - engagement broken and cast aside for another - Charles can only think…

…at least his father didn’t live long enough to see it all crumble to ashes. **  
**


	10. Love or Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The threat of war looms large over Genosha. And Erik makes a decision that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would be a good time for a reminder that I've chosen NOT to tag any of the archive warnings for this fic, so going forward you MAY encounter any of the following: graphic violence, non-con, major character death, underage. I will however, warn at the top of each relevant chapter to check for warnings at the bottom of the page. 
> 
> No warnings apply for this update.
> 
> Click [here](https://gerec.tumblr.com/image/170139171981) for a map of Heven, by the always amazing @varrix on tumblr!

**_Year 196, Age of Storms  
_** **_Lehnsherr Keep, Genosha_ **

_The fates brought misfortune upon Prince Charles in his sixteenth year, with the sudden passing of King Brian from an unknown illness. As heir to the throne, it was the Prince’s duty to preside over the state funeral of his father, and thus he was unable to attend the coronation of his betrothed, Prince Erik of Genosha. So too did great change come in the following year, with the unexpected marriage of his mother the Queen Regent to the King of Sakaar, and Kurt Marko’s move from Caierra to his new home at Graymalkin._

_Meanwhile, the winds heralded ill portents for the kingdom of Genosha, where King Erik and his newly appointed General, Logan Howlett, prepare for the possibility of war…_

* * *

When Logan looks back, it is to this day – to this moment – where everything between the three of them is irrevocably changed.

“Report.”

“Scouts have noticed increased activity along the border, Your Majesty; large bands of nomads amassing near the trade route into Wakanda, and an inordinate increase in their dealings with the Vikaars. Estimates report somewhere between two to five hundred in each group, and perhaps half a dozen such groups in total.”

Logan shifts in his chair, eyes moving from Duke Summers to Erik seated on his throne, his forehead furrowed under his heavy crown. The route from Hammer Bay to N’Jadaka runs straight through the Vikaars’ territory to the south, access vitally important to Genosha who relies heavily on the Wakandans for trade.

“That’s anywhere from twelve hundred to three thousand horsemen, in addition to the two thousand woodsmen under the Chieftain’s direct command,” Erik says, “and if they band together…”

“Then their numbers would be great indeed,” the Duke agrees, offering the scroll in his hands to Erik for review. “They would have enough to set up a leagues long barrier along the West Hander, to hamper all travel and trade by land.”

“We could go by sea,” Jean Grey offers with a polite nod of her head. Though newly appointed to the Council, her quick thinking and candor – and the power of her Gift, so much like Charles’ – has already secured her a place as one of Erik’s most trusted advisors. “Go west to Blue Bay and take ship to Wakanda. That would allow us to bypass the Vikaars completely.”

But even before she’s finished Erik is already shaking his head. “Our horses do not travel well by ship,” he explains, looking first to Edie and then to Shaw, both holding silent throughout the Council meeting. “And the towns all along the trade route would suffer, with merchants directed elsewhere. It’s an option, but not an ideal one.”

“Do we even know what they want?” Logan asks, eyes on Erik and ignoring the others in the room. He has little use for most of the Council save Jean – and her father-in-law Christopher Summers, who Logan has known and respected for years – what with their constant bickering and angling for Erik’s favor. “And are we sure that the Vikaars have secured the allegiance of the nomads against us? Have they made any actual demands?”

No one answers for long moments, not even the Duke who was the first to receive this vital information from its source. They have received no formal petitions from the Chieftain, though tributes have continued to dwindle year over year since Jakob’s passing.

“It seems clear to me that the Vikaars desire sovereignty over their lands and their people,” Edie says finally, expression grim, “something they have strongly hinted at for years. They mean to drive for an agreement now with a show of force; use their alliances to cut off our supplies and reduce our income, and if pushed, go to war.”

The Council members react immediately, and exactly as Logan expects; with blustering and condemnation and loud demands for the Chieftain’s head. Erik himself pales at his mother’s statement, but is clearly uninterested in calling for blood at the slightest provocation.

Instead, he adjourns the meeting, expression unreadable as everyone files out of the Throne Room, all of them clearly unhappy at being summarily dismissed.  He motions for Logan and Duke Summers to remain behind, leaving them – along with Queen Edie and Shaw – alone to speak frankly and privately with the king.

“How many troops do we have ready?” Erik asks, pushing himself off the throne to pace back and forth in front of the dias.

“Three thousand,” Logan answers, “with another two on reserve.”

“You can have another five thousand at your borders in four weeks,” Sebastian adds, speaking for the first time since the session began. “I will gladly lend you some of my own troops to quell any uprising.”

Erik shakes his head. “We don’t know for sure that they mean to start a war—“

Sebastian scoffs, and Erik pauses in his step, hands curling into fists. “You do know. I’ve been telling you for ages to deal with the Vikaars but you refused to listen. Now they’ve had years to bolster their resources, building their army using the very tribute they were supposed to send _you_. You must show them, once and for all, that you are not to be trifled with.”

“I don’t want to go to war, Uncle, not against my own people! There has to be some other way.”

“Do you intend to just hand over part of your kingdom then? And refuse to fight?”

“Of course not! But we can negotiate a settlement I’m sure, so we don’t have to lose any innocent lives needlessly to war!”

“And the next time? When they decide they want more than what’s already been given? Will you concede yet again to their demands? Over and over until they take your lands and drain your treasury and make you the laughing stock of all of Heven?”

“Sebastian!” Edie snaps, and Logan is grateful for her timely intervention, cutting cleanly through the escalating tension between uncle and nephew. “Enough, both of you. We think, but do not _know_ what the Vikaars want, or why the nomads choose to ally with them. It would be prudent to send a representative immediately for negotiations. If we strike out without provocation, we could engender ill will amongst the rest of our people. But we must make ourselves ready for war too, should the talks fail to bring forth a peaceful resolution.”

At his mother’s words, Erik physically relaxes, unclenching his fists and turning to retake his place on the throne. The hard lines around Shaw’s mouth softens too as he gazes upon his nephew, and his tone is gentler, and more conciliatory when he says, “This is your kingdom, Erik, and you shall rule it as you see fit. I only wish to impart my own hard earned experience upon you, in a desire to help. Remember that you are a king, and strength is at times more necessary than kindness. Those who mean you harm care nothing for the compassion in your heart.”

His comments do not garner a reply, though Shaw does nothing more than sigh wearily, before patting Edie’s hand and taking his leave, an awkward silence in his wake.

After a few long moments, Erik sighs. “Who should we send then? For negotiations?”

The Duke steps forward and bows. “If it pleases Your Majesty, I offer my services to meet with the Chieftain, and ascertain his intentions.”

“That would be ideal,” Edie agrees as Erik nods; if anyone can find a solution to this mess, it would be their most capable and trusted counsel. “You must leave at once, and send news to us swiftly. Take our fastest horse and courier and make haste for the borderlands.”

“Do what you can to make peace,” Erik adds, “and know that I will entertain all possible solutions. War is to be our _last_ resort.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Summers replies, “I will do as you command.”

* * *

The weeks of waiting following the Duke’s departure takes a visible toll on Erik, and Logan catches him often, unable to sleep and wandering the Keep at all hours of the night. Logan does what he can to help his friend and liege, sparring together in the armory, or taking long walks with him along the windy beach. They speak of Charles and how long it’s been since they’ve seen him; with Erik assuming his duty as King, he no longer has the luxury of extended visits to Westchester. Logan too has seen his responsibilities expand greatly since his promotion to General, necessitating his presence in Hammer Bay alongside his troops. And with King Brian’s sudden death and his mother’s re-marriage, Charles had to abandon his own planned trip to Genosha, to stand at Erik’s side for his coronation. 

“Have you told him the news, in your last letter?” Logan asks, one night as they sit on top of the battlements, just the two of them with mugs of ale in their hands. The moon is high and the stars bright over the bay and it makes him think longingly of Charles; that perhaps he might be looking out of his bedroom window at Graymalkin at this very moment, gazing up at the same night sky.

“I have, and he’s been very supportive,” Erik replies, taking a long, slow sip of his ale. “He writes of his faith in me to make the right decisions for my people, and that he’ll support me and my actions, no matter what I decide.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Logan asks. “Charles is the smartest of us all. You should do well to listen to him, and stop tying yourself in knots over things that haven’t happened yet.”

Erik snorts. “He also says I’m lucky to have my mother’s support and my uncle’s counsel. You know, Charles practically idolizes him. I wonder if he’d agree with Sebastian that I’ve been too passive in dealing with the Vikaars.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

“No,” Erik says, “I’m afraid of what he might say. I mean…I can see my uncle’s point, and perhaps it was wrong to let the Vikaars remain unchecked for so long—“

“You want peace. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I know, but maybe he’s right that what’s happening now is because I didn’t deal with them more harshly before. It’s only…” Erik pauses, and scrubs his face tiredly. “You understand why I don’t want to fight, don’t you? I haven’t even been king for a year, Logan. I don’t want my legacy to be built on a foundation of violence and blood. I want to make my father proud, and starting a war with my own people is the last thing he’d want me to do.”

Logan sighs, slinging an arm around Erik’s shoulder. “He’d be proud of you, Erik, no matter what you decide and how you handle it. Trust me, Jakob would have been damned proud.”

Erik grins. “Look at us, a King and his General, getting drunk up here on the battlements like a couple of naughty children. You still think he’d have been proud?”

“Who’re you kidding?” Logan replies with a laugh, giving Erik’s shoulder a tight squeeze. “He’d have been up here with us, trying to steal our drinks.”

* * *

He’s prepared himself for the worst to happen, he thinks; for the courier to deliver the grave news that Duke Summers’ talks have failed. That he would soon be leading an army to battle under Genosha’s banner, and fight a war with the Vikaars and their allies despite Erik’s hopes for peace.

What he does not expect is the news the courier _actually_ delivers - the offer of a compromise that would have the Vikaars embrace their status as Genoshan subjects, and Erik’s continued rule as their king.

“No! You can’t do this! There has to be another way!”

He waits to be reprimanded – by Edie or even by Erik himself – for speaking out of turn, but the room remains silent at his outburst, its occupants still reeling from the contents of the Duke’s message.

“You’re certain…that this is what Duke Summers intended? The letter has not been altered in any way? I don’t…how do I…” Erik stammers.

“Your Majesty,” Jean answers, tone neutral, though her expression makes clear the turmoil she feels in the face of Erik’s growing horror. “I have read the thoughts of the courier to ascertain the accuracy of his conversations with the Duke. The contents of the letter are true, as is the deal being offered.

“In exchange for an immediate cessation to their plans to sue for independence, for separation from Genosha to establish their own lands for one hundred and fifty leagues due north of Wakanda, we are to offer them full rights of citizenship, a place for them on our Council…,” Jean continues, hesitating slightly as Edie sighs, and Shaw sits quietly, lips pursed into a frown, “…and the marriage of the Chieftain’s daughter, Lady Magda, to the king.”

“They must know that Erik is already betrothed,” Edie says, “why would they ask for such a thing? When they know that it means he can’t possibly accept their offer?”

Jean shakes her head. “I don’t know, but the notes in his letter are very thoroughly detailed. They will not budge on the issue of marriage, as they believe having a Vikaar as Queen – specifically the one in line to become their next Chieftain – will be both insurance and goodwill, to ensure that we do not go back on our promises.”

“Or perhaps they’re counting on Erik to say no, so they can go to war with open hearts and a clear conscience, and tell all of Heven that it was Genosha’s king who would not compromise with his own people,” Shaw offers. “Either way it must be clear now that war is upon you. Will you not let me help? My offer of five thousand troops still stands.”

It is long moments before Erik speaks, eyes distant as his fingers rub gently against the Xavier signet ring he bears. A gift and a promise from Charles on the day of their engagement, in the name of the gods and under the watchful eyes of Heven’s elite.

“I will keep that in mind, Uncle,” he says, and Logan’s heart sinks from his chest down to the soles of his feet, “but for now I need some time alone to consider this proposal--”

“You aren’t actually thinking of agreeing to this deal?” Shaw interrupts, for once losing his always serene composure. “To end your engagement with _Charles_? The one you love with your whole heart? You would give him up to marry a barbarian’s daughter instead?”

“I must consider all the options available to me! Because I am the _king_! I _asked_ Duke Summers to sue for peace, at _any_ cost and so he has done so in my name. I can’t just dismiss this offer outright without weighing it carefully! I owe it to my people to do my best for them all.”

Edie reaches for Shaw as he stands, but he storms past her without pause, coming to stand in front of Erik on his throne. A contest of wills ensues as they glare at one another, anger and frustration weighing their thoughts and words until Erik sighs, and climbs off the dias to meet his uncle face to face.

“You must let me do this my way,” Erik pleads, and the anger deflates from Shaw into resignation, and muted sorrow. “If I am to be king I must make my own decisions, and choose my own destiny. I can’t rely on you to save me at every turn.”

But Sebastian shakes his head and then leans forward, fingers gentle as he cups Erik’s face between his hands. “He will never forgive you, son. Yes, he will understand; he might even agree with your decision but he will never _forget_ it. Your relationship – your _friendship_ – with Charles will end forever if you do this, and I cannot stand here and watch you rip out your own heart when I know there’s another choice you can make.”

He pulls away then and turns, crossing the room to take Edie’s hand. “It’s time I returned home to Aerie, and see to my own affairs. If you change your mind about the troops, just send word and I will see it done,” Shaw says, disappearing from the room without a backwards glance. Jean quietly follows a few moments later, slipping out with a bow and leaving the three of them alone with the Duke’s letter.

Erik crouches next to Edie, and lets his mother fold him into her arms. “You haven’t told me what you think, Mama. Do you agree with him? Do you think we should go to war?”

Edie sighs, and presses a kiss to the top of Erik’s head. “I think your uncle’s words have merit, but you are right that this is not his kingdom…it is yours. I cannot fault you if you decide to choose duty over love, Erik; to choose the lives and the happiness of your people over your own. It is the lot of our lives as royalty, my darling, to make choices that cause us pain for the greater good.”

She reaches for Logan then too, and pulls him close, wrapping her arms around them both as Erik takes deep, shuddering breaths. This can’t be happening, Logan tells himself, mind still racing over the implications of everything he’s seen and heard, there must be something _more_ , something different they can do to _fix_ this—

“What would Papa have done, if he were in my place?” Erik asks, and Logan knows in this instant, what the future will bring. “Would he have chosen duty? Or love?”

“You know the answer to that already,” Edie replies, her smile soft and sad. “It’s duty over love, always.”

* * *

Hours later, and Logan still can’t believe it.

“You can’t mean to go through with it.”

He finds Erik alone in the armory, robes discarded in a pile on the floor, attacking a wooden pell over and over with his sword. The anger and pain radiates from his entire body, and he screams with every vicious blow he lands, as though to cut down some unseen enemy.

Though they both know that the only enemy Erik means to injure is himself.

“You heard what my mother said, Logan. We must do what is best for our people, even if it costs us great pain,” Erik says, wiping the wetness from his face surreptitiously to hide his distress. “I have to do this.”

“Bullshit,” Logan snarls, as he reaches for Erik’s sword, pulling it loose from his grip and tossing it across the room with a loud clang. “You’re the king. You don’t _have_ to do anything.”

“I thought you of all people would understand! I told you! I don’t want to go to war with the Vikaars! Do you know how many of them will die? How many innocent men, women and children? That’s on my head!”

“No,” Logan asserts, grabbing a hold of Erik by the shoulders and giving him a hard shake. “That’s on the Chieftain. He wants a war, a kingdom of their own? That’s on _him_! If his people suffer it was their choice to make, not yours.”

“They’re _my_ people too, Logan. These lands, all of Genosha used to belong to Aerie remember? Until my great grandfather went to war and split from the House of Shaw? The territory where the Vikaars live had been theirs for Ages beyond counting, until we came and laid claim on it and made them vassals in their own home. And even if I cared nothing for these ‘barbarians’ as they’ve been known, what about our own people? How many of our own troops will die? How many civilians who live close to the borderlands, innocent bystanders caught up in the fighting? How can I, in good conscience, agree to war if there’s a chance for peace instead?”

“Erik, you can’t--”

“Can you honestly tell me I’m wrong?” Erik interrupts, pulling away from Logan and slumping down into a heap on the armory floor. “That you wouldn’t do this if you were in my place? I know you, Logan, and I know you have an honorable and steadfast heart. I know you would do anything and everything you could to protect the ones you love, no matter what you had to sacrifice. Could I do any less than that as the king?”

The irony does not escape him, as he looks down upon his half-brother’s face, gazing at him with so much anguish and despair. It could have easily been Logan now in Erik’s place, if the fates had woven a different tapestry; Logan, who would be king, and engaged to his heart’s greatest joy.

Logan, who would have to make the same decision, to spare his people from suffering and death, in exchange for a lifetime of happiness with Charles.

He does not envy Erik, and he cannot bring himself to hate him, but the words of support and understanding so desperately needed of him stays dammed within his throat. 

“Won’t you at least discuss this with Charles first? Before you make your decision? Perhaps he can help, with goods from Westchester for trade or--”

Erik waves away his suggestion with a tired sigh. “It would be no different than asking my uncle for help. This is _my_ kingdom and these are my subjects, and I cannot be seen as weak willed or in need of saving by others. And I’m afraid…I’m afraid if I see Charles my resolve will fade to nothing and I will throw honor and goodness to the wind just for the chance to hold him again in my arms. No, I must be resolute, and secure the deal first, and then…”

“Then you will go to Westchester,” Logan says, “and break your oath to him.”

“Yes,” Erik replies bitterly, full of grief and self-loathing. “It’s duty over love, always.”


End file.
